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Title: Cousin Betty

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</pre>

<p> </p>

<h2>Cousin Betty</h2>

<h3>by Honore de Balzac</h3>

<h4><br>
 Translated by James Waring</h4>

<h4><br>
 DEDICATION</h4>

<p>To Don Michele Angelo Cajetani, Prince of Teano.</p>

<p>It is neither to the Roman Prince, nor to the representative
of<br>
 the illustrious house of Cajetani, which has given more than
one<br>
 Pope to the Christian Church, that I dedicate this short
portion<br>
 of a long history; it is to the learned commentator of
Dante.</p>

<p>It was you who led me to understand the marvelous framework
of<br>
 ideas on which the great Italian poet built his poem, the
only<br>
 work which the moderns can place by that of Homer. Till I
heard<br>
 you, the Divine Comedy was to me a vast enigma to which none
had<br>
 found the clue--the commentators least of all. Thus, to
understand<br>
 Dante is to be as great as he; but every form of greatness
is<br>
 familiar to you.</p>

<p><br>
 A French savant could make a reputation, earn a professor's
chair,<br>
 and a dozen decorations, by publishing in a dogmatic volume
the<br>
 improvised lecture by which you lent enchantment to one of
those<br>
 evenings which are rest after seeing Rome. You do not know,<br>
 perhaps, that most of our professors live on Germany, on
England,<br>
 on the East, or on the North, as an insect lives on a tree;
and,<br>
 like the insect, become an integral part of it, borrowing
their<br>
 merit from that of what they feed on. Now, Italy hitherto has
not<br>
 yet been worked out in public lectures. No one will ever give
me<br>
 credit for my literary honesty. Merely by plundering you I
might<br>
 have been as learned as three Schlegels in one, whereas I mean
to<br>
 remain a humble Doctor of the Faculty of Social Medicine, a<br>
 veterinary surgeon for incurable maladies. Were it only to lay
a<br>
 token of gratitude at the feet of my cicerone, I would fain
add<br>
 your illustrious name to those of Porcia, of San-Severino,
of<br>
 Pareto, of di Negro, and of Belgiojoso, who will represent in
this<br>
 "Human Comedy" the close and constant alliance between Italy
and<br>
 France, to which Bandello did honor in the same way in the<br>
 sixteenth century--Bandello, the bishop and author of some
strange<br>
 tales indeed, who left us the splendid collection of
romances<br>
 whence Shakespeare derived many of his plots and even
complete<br>
 characters, word for word.</p>

<p>The two sketches I dedicate to you are the two eternal aspects
of<br>
 one and the same fact. Homo duplex, said the great Buffon: why
not<br>
 add Res duplex? Everything has two sides, even virtue. Hence<br>
 Moliere always shows us both sides of every human problem;
and<br>
 Diderot, imitating him, once wrote, "This is not a mere
tale"--in<br>
 what is perhaps Diderot's masterpiece, where he shows us the<br>
 beautiful picture of Mademoiselle de Lachaux sacrificed by<br>
 Gardanne, side by side with that of a perfect lover dying for
his<br>
 mistress.</p>

<p>In the same way, these two romances form a pair, like twins
of<br>
 opposite sexes. This is a literary vagary to which a writer
may<br>
 for once give way, especially as part of a work in which I
am<br>
 endeavoring to depict every form that can serve as a garb to
mind.</p>

<p>Most human quarrels arise from the fact that both wise men
and<br>
 dunces exist who are so constituted as to be incapable of
seeing<br>
 more than one side of any fact or idea, while each asserts
that<br>
 the side he sees is the only true and right one. Thus it is<br>
 written in the Holy Book, "God will deliver the world over
to<br>
 divisions." I must confess that this passage of Scripture
alone<br>
 should persuade the Papal See to give you the control of the
two<br>
 Chambers to carry out the text which found its commentary in
1814,<br>
 in the decree of Louis XVIII.</p>

<p>May your wit and the poetry that is in you extend a
protecting<br>
 hand over these two histories of "The Poor Relations"</p>

<p>Of your affectionate humble servant,</p>

<p>DE BALZAC.<br>
 PARIS, August-September, 1846.</p>

<p> </p>

<p> </p>

<h1>COUSIN BETTY</h1>

<h2>PART I</h2>

<h3>THE PRODIGAL FATHER</h3>

<p>One day, about the middle of July 1838, one of the carriages,
then<br>
 lately introduced to Paris cabstands, and known as
<i>Milords</i>, was<br>
 driving down the Rue de l'Universite, conveying a stout man of
middle<br>
 height in the uniform of a captain of the National Guard.</p>

<p>Among the Paris crowd, who are supposed to be so clever, there
are<br>
 some men who fancy themselves infinitely more attractive in
uniform<br>
 than in their ordinary clothes, and who attribute to women so
depraved<br>
 a taste that they believe they will be favorably impressed by
the<br>
 aspect of a busby and of military accoutrements.</p>

<p><br>
 The countenance of this Captain of the Second Company beamed
with a<br>
 self-satisfaction that added splendor to his ruddy and somewhat
chubby<br>
 face. The halo of glory that a fortune made in business gives to
a<br>
 retired tradesman sat on his brow, and stamped him as one of the
elect<br>
 of Paris--at least a retired deputy-mayor of his quarter of the
town.<br>
 And you may be sure that the ribbon of the Legion of Honor was
not<br>
 missing from his breast, gallantly padded <i>a la
Prussienne</i>. Proudly<br>
 seated in one corner of the <i>milord</i>, this splendid person
let his<br>
 gaze wander over the passers-by, who, in Paris, often thus meet
an<br>
 ingratiating smile meant for sweet eyes that are absent.</p>

<p>The vehicle stopped in the part of the street between the Rue
de<br>
 Bellechasse and the Rue de Bourgogne, at the door of a large,
newly-<br>
 build house, standing on part of the court-yard of an ancient
mansion<br>
 that had a garden. The old house remained in its original
state,<br>
 beyond the courtyard curtailed by half its extent.</p>

<p>Only from the way in which the officer accepted the assistance
of the<br>
 coachman to help him out, it was plain that he was past fifty.
There<br>
 are certain movements so undisguisedly heavy that they are as
tell-<br>
 tale as a register of birth. The captain put on his
lemon-colored<br>
 right-hand glove, and, without any question to the gatekeeper,
went up<br>
 the outer steps to the ground of the new house with a look
that<br>
 proclaimed, "She is mine!"</p>

<p>The <i>concierges</i> of Paris have sharp eyes; they do not
stop visitors<br>
 who wear an order, have a blue uniform, and walk ponderously;
in<br>
 short, they know a rich man when they see him.</p>

<p>This ground floor was entirely occupied by Monsieur le Baron
Hulot<br>
 d'Ervy, Commissary General under the Republic, retired army<br>
 contractor, and at the present time at the head of one of the
most<br>
 important departments of the War Office, Councillor of State,
officer<br>
 of the Legion of Honor, and so forth.</p>

<p>This Baron Hulot had taken the name of d'Ervy--the place of
his birth<br>
 --to distinguish him from his brother, the famous General
Hulot,<br>
 Colonel of the Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, created by
the<br>
 Emperor Comte de Forzheim after the campaign of 1809. The Count,
the<br>
 elder brother, being responsible for his junior, had, with
paternal<br>
 care, placed him in the commissariat, where, thanks to the
services of<br>
 the two brothers, the Baron deserved and won Napoleon's good
graces.<br>
 After 1807, Baron Hulot was Commissary General for the army in
Spain.</p>

<p>Having rung the bell, the citizen-captain made strenuous
efforts to<br>
 pull his coat into place, for it had rucked up as much at the
back as<br>
 in front, pushed out of shape by the working of a piriform
stomach.<br>
 Being admitted as soon as the servant in livery saw him, the
important<br>
 and imposing personage followed the man, who opened the door of
the<br>
 drawing-room, announcing:</p>

<p>"Monsieur Crevel."</p>

<p>On hearing the name, singularly appropriate to the figure of
the man<br>
 who bore it, a tall, fair woman, evidently young-looking for her
age,<br>
 rose as if she had received an electric shock.</p>

<p>"Hortense, my darling, go into the garden with your Cousin
Betty," she<br>
 said hastily to her daughter, who was working at some embroidery
at<br>
 her mother's side.</p>

<p>After curtseying prettily to the captain, Mademoiselle
Hortense went<br>
 out by a glass door, taking with her a withered-looking
spinster, who<br>
 looked older than the Baroness, though she was five years
younger.</p>

<p>"They are settling your marriage," said Cousin Betty in the
girl's<br>
 ear, without seeming at all offended at the way in which the
Baroness<br>
 had dismissed them, counting her almost as zero.</p>

<p>The cousin's dress might, at need, have explained this
free-and-easy<br>
 demeanor. The old maid wore a merino gown of a dark plum color,
of<br>
 which the cut and trimming dated from the year of the
Restoration; a<br>
 little worked collar, worth perhaps three francs; and a common
straw<br>
 hat with blue satin ribbons edged with straw plait, such as the
old-<br>
 clothes buyers wear at market. On looking down at her kid shoes,
made,<br>
 it was evident, by the veriest cobbler, a stranger would
have<br>
 hesitated to recognize Cousin Betty as a member of the family,
for she<br>
 looked exactly like a journeywoman sempstress. But she did not
leave<br>
 the room without bestowing a little friendly nod on Monsieur
Crevel,<br>
 to which that gentleman responded by a look of mutual
understanding.</p>

<p>"You are coming to us to-morrow, I hope, Mademoiselle
Fischer?" said<br>
 he.</p>

<p>"You have no company?" asked Cousin Betty.</p>

<p>"My children and yourself, no one else," replied the
visitor.</p>

<p>"Very well," replied she; "depend on me."</p>

<p>"And here am I, madame, at your orders," said the
citizen-captain,<br>
 bowing again to Madame Hulot.</p>

<p>He gave such a look at Madame Hulot as Tartuffe casts at
Elmire--when<br>
 a provincial actor plays the part and thinks it necessary to
emphasize<br>
 its meaning--at Poitiers, or at Coutances.</p>

<p>"If you will come into this room with me, we shall be more<br>
 conveniently placed for talking business than we are in this
room,"<br>
 said Madame Hulot, going to an adjoining room, which, as the
apartment<br>
 was arranged, served as a cardroom.</p>

<p>It was divided by a slight partition from a boudoir looking
out on the<br>
 garden, and Madame Hulot left her visitor to himself for a
minute, for<br>
 she thought it wise to shut the window and the door of the
boudoir, so<br>
 that no one should get in and listen. She even took the
precaution of<br>
 shutting the glass door of the drawing-room, smiling on her
daughter<br>
 and her cousin, whom she saw seated in an old summer-house at
the end<br>
 of the garden. As she came back she left the cardroom door open,
so as<br>
 to hear if any one should open that of the drawing-room to come
in.</p>

<p>As she came and went, the Baroness, seen by nobody, allowed
her face<br>
 to betray all her thoughts, and any one who could have seen her
would<br>
 have been shocked to see her agitation. But when she finally
came back<br>
 from the glass door of the drawing-room, as she entered the
cardroom,<br>
 her face was hidden behind the impenetrable reserve which every
woman,<br>
 even the most candid, seems to have at her command.</p>

<p>During all these preparations--odd, to say the least--the
National<br>
 Guardsman studied the furniture of the room in which he found
himself.<br>
 As he noted the silk curtains, once red, now faded to dull
purple by<br>
 the sunshine, and frayed in the pleats by long wear; the carpet,
from<br>
 which the hues had faded; the discolored gilding of the
furniture; and<br>
 the silk seats, discolored in patches, and wearing into
strips--<br>
 expressions of scorn, satisfaction, and hope dawned in
succession<br>
 without disguise on his stupid tradesman's face. He looked at
himself<br>
 in the glass over an old clock of the Empire, and was
contemplating<br>
 the general effect, when the rustle of her silk skirt announced
the<br>
 Baroness. He at once struck at attitude.</p>

<p>After dropping on to a sofa, which had been a very handsome
one in the<br>
 year 1809, the Baroness, pointing to an armchair with the arms
ending<br>
 in bronze sphinxes' heads, while the paint was peeling from the
wood,<br>
 which showed through in many places, signed to Crevel to be
seated.</p>

<p>"All the precautions you are taking, madame, would seem full
of<br>
 promise to a----"</p>

<p>"To a lover," said she, interrupting him.</p>

<p>"The word is too feeble," said he, placing his right hand on
his<br>
 heart, and rolling his eyes in a way which almost always makes a
woman<br>
 laugh when she, in cold blood, sees such a look. "A lover! A
lover?<br>
 Say a man bewitched----"</p>

<p>"Listen, Monsieur Crevel," said the Baroness, too anxious to
be able<br>
 to laugh, "you are fifty--ten years younger than Monsieur Hulot,
I<br>
 know; but at my age a woman's follies ought to be justified by
beauty,<br>
 youth, fame, superior merit--some one of the splendid qualities
which<br>
 can dazzle us to the point of making us forget all else--even at
our<br>
 age. Though you may have fifty thousand francs a year, your
age<br>
 counterbalances your fortune; thus you have nothing whatever of
what a<br>
 woman looks for----"</p>

<p>"But love!" said the officer, rising and coming forward. "Such
love<br>
 as----"</p>

<p>"No, monsieur, such obstinacy!" said the Baroness,
interrupting him to<br>
 put an end to his absurdity.</p>

<p>"Yes, obstinacy," said he, "and love; but something stronger
still--a<br>
 claim----"</p>

<p>"A claim!" cried Madame Hulot, rising sublime with scorn,
defiance,<br>
 and indignation. "But," she went on, "this will bring us to no
issues;<br>
 I did not ask you to come here to discuss the matter which led
to your<br>
 banishment in spite of the connection between our
families----"</p>

<p>"I had fancied so."</p>

<p>"What! still?" cried she. "Do you not see, monsieur, by the
entire<br>
 ease and freedom with which I can speak of lovers and love,
of<br>
 everything least creditable to a woman, that I am perfectly
secure in<br>
 my own virtue? I fear nothing--not even to shut myself in alone
with<br>
 you. Is that the conduct of a weak woman? You know full well why
I<br>
 begged you to come."</p>

<p>"No, madame," replied Crevel, with an assumption of great
coldness. He<br>
 pursed up his lips, and again struck an attitude.</p>

<p>"Well, I will be brief, to shorten our common discomfort,"
said the<br>
 Baroness, looking at Crevel.</p>

<p>Crevel made an ironical bow, in which a man who knew the race
would<br>
 have recognized the graces of a bagman.</p>

<p>"Our son married your daughter----"</p>

<p>"And if it were to do again----" said Crevel.</p>

<p>"It would not be done at all, I suspect," said the baroness
hastily.<br>
 "However, you have nothing to complain of. My son is not only
one of<br>
 the leading pleaders of Paris, but for the last year he has sat
as<br>
 Deputy, and his maiden speech was brilliant enough to lead us
to<br>
 suppose that ere long he will be in office. Victorin has twice
been<br>
 called upon to report on important measures; and he might even
now, if<br>
 he chose, be made Attorney-General in the Court of Appeal. So,
if you<br>
 mean to say that your son-in-law has no fortune----"</p>

<p>"Worse than that, madame, a son-in-law whom I am obliged to
maintain,"<br>
 replied Crevel. "Of the five hundred thousand francs that formed
my<br>
 daughter's marriage portion, two hundred thousand have
vanished--God<br>
 knows how!--in paying the young gentleman's debts, in furnishing
his<br>
 house splendaciously--a house costing five hundred thousand
francs,<br>
 and bringing in scarcely fifteen thousand, since he occupies
the<br>
 larger part of it, while he owes two hundred and sixty thousand
francs<br>
 of the purchase-money. The rent he gets barely pays the interest
on<br>
 the debt. I have had to give my daughter twenty thousand francs
this<br>
 year to help her to make both ends meet. And then my son-in-law,
who<br>
 was making thirty thousand francs a year at the Assizes, I am
told, is<br>
 going to throw that up for the Chamber----"</p>

<p>"This, again, Monsieur Crevel, is beside the mark; we are
wandering<br>
 from the point. Still, to dispose of it finally, it may be said
that<br>
 if my son gets into office, if he has you made an officer of
the<br>
 Legion of Honor and councillor of the municipality of Paris,
you, as a<br>
 retired perfumer, will not have much to complain of----"</p>

<p>"Ah! there we are again, madame! Yes, I am a tradesman, a
shopkeeper,<br>
 a retail dealer in almond-paste, eau-de-Portugal, and hair-oil,
and<br>
 was only too much honored when my only daughter was married to
the son<br>
 of Monsieur le Baron Hulot d'Ervy--my daughter will be a
Baroness!<br>
 This is Regency, Louis XV., (Eil-de-boeuf--quite tip-top!--very
good.)<br>
 I love Celestine as a man loves his only child--so well indeed,
that,<br>
 to preserve her from having either brother or sister, I
resigned<br>
 myself to all the privations of a widower--in Paris, and in the
prime<br>
 of life, madame. But you must understand that, in spite of
this<br>
 extravagant affection for my daughter, I do not intend to reduce
my<br>
 fortune for the sake of your son, whose expenses are not
wholly<br>
 accounted for--in my eyes, as an old man of business."</p>

<p><br>
 "Monsieur, you may at this day see in the Ministry of
Commerce<br>
 Monsieur Popinot, formerly a druggist in the Rue des
Lombards----"</p>

<p>"And a friend of mine, madame," said the ex-perfumer. "For I,
Celestin<br>
 Crevel, foreman once to old Cesar Birotteau, brought up the said
Cesar<br>
 Birotteau's stock; and he was Popinot's father-in-law. Why, that
very<br>
 Popinot was no more than a shopman in the establishment, and he
is the<br>
 first to remind me of it; for he is not proud, to do him
justice, to<br>
 men in a good position with an income of sixty thousand francs
in the<br>
 funds."</p>

<p>"Well then, monsieur, the notions you term 'Regency' are quite
out of<br>
 date at a time when a man is taken at his personal worth; and
that is<br>
 what you did when you married your daughter to my son."</p>

<p>"But you do not know how the marriage was brought about!"
cried<br>
 Crevel. "Oh, that cursed bachelor life! But for my misconduct,
my<br>
 Celestine might at this day be Vicomtesse Popinot!"</p>

<p>"Once more have done with recriminations over accomplished
facts,"<br>
 said the Baroness anxiously. "Let us rather discuss the
complaints I<br>
 have found on your strange behavior. My daughter Hortense had a
chance<br>
 of marrying; the match depended entirely on you; I believed you
felt<br>
 some sentiments of generosity; I thought you would do justice to
a<br>
 woman who has never had a thought in her heart for any man but
her<br>
 husband, that you would have understood how necessary it is for
her<br>
 not to receive a man who may compromise her, and that for the
honor of<br>
 the family with which you are allied you would have been eager
to<br>
 promote Hortense's settlement with Monsieur le Conseiller
Lebas.--And<br>
 it is you, monsieur, you have hindered the marriage."</p>

<p>"Madame," said the ex-perfumer, "I acted the part of an honest
man. I<br>
 was asked whether the two hundred thousand francs to be settled
on<br>
 Mademoiselle Hortense would be forthcoming. I replied exactly in
these<br>
 words: 'I would not answer for it. My son-in-law, to whom the
Hulots<br>
 had promised the same sum, was in debt; and I believe that if
Monsieur<br>
 Hulot d'Ervy were to die to-morrow, his widow would have nothing
to<br>
 live on.'--There, fair lady."</p>

<p>"And would you have said as much, monsieur," asked Madame
Hulot,<br>
 looking Crevel steadily in the face, "if I had been false to my
duty?"</p>

<p>"I should not be in a position to say it, dearest Adeline,"
cried this<br>
 singular adorer, interrupting the Baroness, "for you would have
found<br>
 the amount in my pocket-book."</p>

<p>And adding action to word, the fat guardsman knelt down on one
knee<br>
 and kissed Madame Hulot's hand, seeing that his speech had
filled her<br>
 with speechless horror, which he took for hesitancy.</p>

<p>"What, buy my daughter's fortune at the cost of----? Rise,
monsieur--<br>
 or I ring the bell."</p>

<p>Crevel rose with great difficulty. This fact made him so
furious that<br>
 he again struck his favorite attitude. Most men have some
habitual<br>
 position by which they fancy that they show to the best
advantage the<br>
 good points bestowed on them by nature. This attitude in
Crevel<br>
 consisted in crossing his arms like Napoleon, his head showing
three-<br>
 quarters face, and his eyes fixed on the horizon, as the painter
has<br>
 shown the Emperor in his portrait.</p>

<p>"To be faithful," he began, with well-acted indignation, "so
faithful<br>
 to a liber----"</p>

<p>"To a husband who is worthy of such fidelity," Madame Hulot
put in, to<br>
 hinder Crevel from saying a word she did not choose to hear.</p>

<p>"Come, madame; you wrote to bid me here, you ask the reasons
for my<br>
 conduct, you drive me to extremities with your imperial airs,
your<br>
 scorn, and your contempt! Any one might think I was a Negro. But
I<br>
 repeat it, and you may believe me, I have a right to--to make
love to<br>
 you, for---- But no; I love you well enough to hold my
tongue."</p>

<p>"You may speak, monsieur. In a few days I shall be
eight-and-forty; I<br>
 am no prude; I can hear whatever you can say."</p>

<p>"Then will you give me your word of honor as an honest
woman--for you<br>
 are, alas for me! an honest woman--never to mention my name or
to say<br>
 that it was I who betrayed the secret?"</p>

<p>"If that is the condition on which you speak, I will swear
never to<br>
 tell any one from whom I heard the horrors you propose to tell
me, not<br>
 even my husband."</p>

<p>"I should think not indeed, for only you and he are
concerned."</p>

<p>Madame Hulot turned pale.</p>

<p>"Oh, if you still really love Hulot, it will distress you.
Shall I say<br>
 no more?"</p>

<p>"Speak, monsieur; for by your account you wish to justify in
my eyes<br>
 the extraordinary declarations you have chosen to make me, and
your<br>
 persistency in tormenting a woman of my age, whose only wish is
to see<br>
 her daughter married, and then--to die in peace----"</p>

<p>"You see; you are unhappy."</p>

<p>"I, monsieur?"</p>

<p>"Yes, beautiful, noble creature!" cried Crevel. "You have
indeed been<br>
 too wretched!"</p>

<p>"Monsieur, be silent and go--or speak to me as you ought."</p>

<p>"Do you know, madame, how Master Hulot and I first made
acquaintance?<br>
 --At our mistresses', madame."</p>

<p>"Oh, monsieur!"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, at our mistresses'," Crevel repeated in a
melodramatic<br>
 tone, and leaving his position to wave his right hand.</p>

<p>"Well, and what then?" said the Baroness coolly, to Crevel's
great<br>
 amazement.</p>

<p>Such mean seducers cannot understand a great soul.</p>

<p>"I, a widower five years since," Crevel began, in the tone of
a man<br>
 who has a story to tell, "and not wishing to marry again for the
sake<br>
 of the daughter I adore, not choosing either to cultivate any
such<br>
 connection in my own establishment, though I had at the time a
very<br>
 pretty lady-accountant. I set up, 'on her own account,' as they
say, a<br>
 little sempstress of fifteen--really a miracle of beauty, with
whom I<br>
 fell desperately in love. And in fact, madame, I asked an aunt
of my<br>
 own, my mother's sister, whom I sent for from the country, to
live<br>
 with the sweet creature and keep an eye on her, that she might
behave<br>
 as well as might be in this rather--what shall I
say--shady?--no,<br>
 delicate position.</p>

<p>"The child, whose talent for music was striking, had masters,
she was<br>
 educated--I had to give her something to do. Besides, I wished
to be<br>
 at once her father, her benefactor, and--well, out with it--her
lover;<br>
 to kill two birds with one stone, a good action and a
sweetheart. For<br>
 five years I was very happy. The girl had one of those voices
that<br>
 make the fortune of a theatre; I can only describe her by saying
that<br>
 she is a Duprez in petticoats. It cost me two thousand francs a
year<br>
 only to cultivate her talent as a singer. She made me music-mad;
I<br>
 took a box at the opera for her and for my daughter, and went
there<br>
 alternate evenings with Celestine or Josepha."</p>

<p>"What, the famous singer?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame," said Crevel with pride, "the famous Josepha
owes<br>
 everything to me.--At last, in 1834, when the child was
twenty,<br>
 believing that I had attached her to me for ever, and being very
weak<br>
 where she was concerned, I thought I would give her a little<br>
 amusement, and I introduced her to a pretty little actress,
Jenny<br>
 Cadine, whose life had been somewhat like her own. This actress
also<br>
 owed everything to a protector who had brought her up in
leading-<br>
 strings. That protector was Baron Hulot."</p>

<p>"I know that," said the Baroness, in a calm voice without the
least<br>
 agitation.</p>

<p>"Bless me!" cried Crevel, more and more astounded. "Well! But
do you<br>
 know that your monster of a husband took Jenny Cadine in hand at
the<br>
 age of thirteen?"</p>

<p>"What then?" said the Baroness.</p>

<p>"As Jenny Cadine and Josepha were both aged twenty when they
first<br>
 met," the ex-tradesman went on, "the Baron had been playing the
part<br>
 of Louis XV. to Mademoiselle de Romans ever since 1826, and you
were<br>
 twelve years younger then----"</p>

<p>"I had my reasons, monsieur, for leaving Monsieur Hulot his
liberty."</p>

<p>"That falsehood, madame, will surely be enough to wipe out
every sin<br>
 you have ever committed, and to open to you the gates of
Paradise,"<br>
 replied Crevel, with a knowing air that brought the color to
the<br>
 Baroness' cheeks. "Sublime and adored woman, tell that to those
who<br>
 will believe it, but not to old Crevel, who has, I may tell
you,<br>
 feasted too often as one of four with your rascally husband not
to<br>
 know what your high merits are! Many a time has he blamed
himself when<br>
 half tipsy as he has expatiated on your perfections. Oh, I know
you<br>
 well!--A libertine might hesitate between you and a girl of
twenty. I<br>
 do not hesitate----"</p>

<p>"Monsieur!"</p>

<p>"Well, I say no more. But you must know, saintly and noble
woman, that<br>
 a husband under certain circumstances will tell things about his
wife<br>
 to his mistress that will mightily amuse her."</p>

<p>Tears of shame hanging to Madame Hulot's long lashes checked
the<br>
 National Guardsman. He stopped short, and forgot his
attitude.</p>

<p>"To proceed," said he. "We became intimate, the Baron and I,
through<br>
 the two hussies. The Baron, like all bad lots, is very pleasant,
a<br>
 thoroughly jolly good fellow. Yes, he took my fancy, the old
rascal.<br>
 He could be so funny!--Well, enough of those reminiscences. We
got to<br>
 be like brothers. The scoundrel--quite Regency in his
notions--tried<br>
 indeed to deprave me altogether, preached Saint-Simonism as to
women,<br>
 and all sorts of lordly ideas; but, you see, I was fond enough
of my<br>
 girl to have married her, only I was afraid of having
children.</p>

<p>"Then between two old daddies, such friends as--as we were,
what more<br>
 natural than that we should think of our children marrying each
other?<br>
 --Three months after his son had married my Celestine, Hulot--I
don't<br>
 know how I can utter the wretch's name! he has cheated us both,
madame<br>
 --well, the villain did me out of my little Josepha. The
scoundrel<br>
 knew that he was supplanted in the heart of Jenny Cadine by a
young<br>
 lawyer and by an artist--only two of them!--for the girl had
more and<br>
 more of a howling success, and he stole my sweet little girl,
a<br>
 perfect darling--but you must have seen her at the opera; he got
her<br>
 an engagement there. Your husband is not so well behaved as I
am. I am<br>
 ruled as straight as a sheet of music-paper. He had dropped a
good<br>
 deal of money on Jenny Cadine, who must have cost him near on
thirty<br>
 thousand francs a year. Well, I can only tell you that he is
ruining<br>
 himself outright for Josepha.</p>

<p><br>
 "Josepha, madame, is a Jewess. Her name is Mirah, the anagram
of<br>
 Hiram, an Israelite mark that stamps her, for she was a
foundling<br>
 picked up in Germany, and the inquiries I have made prove that
she is<br>
 the illegitimate child of a rich Jew banker. The life of the
theatre,<br>
 and, above all, the teaching of Jenny Cadine, Madame Schontz,
Malaga,<br>
 and Carabine, as to the way to treat an old man, have developed,
in<br>
 the child whom I had kept in a respectable and not too expensive
way<br>
 of life, all the native Hebrew instinct for gold and jewels--for
the<br>
 golden calf.</p>

<p>"So this famous singer, hungering for plunder, now wants to be
rich,<br>
 very rich. She tried her 'prentice hand on Baron Hulot, and
soon<br>
 plucked him bare--plucked him, ay, and singed him to the skin.
The<br>
 miserable man, after trying to vie with one of the Kellers and
with<br>
 the Marquis d'Esgrignon, both perfectly mad about Josepha, to
say<br>
 nothing of unknown worshipers, is about to see her carried off
by that<br>
 very rich Duke, who is such a patron of the arts. Oh, what is
his<br>
 name?--a dwarf.--Ah, the Duc d'Herouville. This fine gentleman
insists<br>
 on having Josepha for his very own, and all that set are talking
about<br>
 it; the Baron knows nothing of it as yet; for it is the same in
the<br>
 Thirteenth Arrondissement as in every other: the lover, like
the<br>
 husband, is last to get the news.</p>

<p>"Now, do you understand my claim? Your husband, dear lady, has
robbed<br>
 me of my joy in life, the only happiness I have known since I
became a<br>
 widower. Yes, if I had not been so unlucky as to come across
that old<br>
 rip, Josepha would still be mine; for I, you know, should never
have<br>
 placed her on the stage. She would have lived obscure, well
conducted,<br>
 and mine. Oh! if you could but have seen her eight years ago,
slight<br>
 and wiry, with the golden skin of an Andalusian, as they say,
black<br>
 hair as shiny as satin, an eye that flashed lightning under long
brown<br>
 lashes, the style of a duchess in every movement, the modesty of
a<br>
 dependent, decent grace, and the pretty ways of a wild fawn. And
by<br>
 that Hulot's doing all this charm and purity has been degraded
to a<br>
 man-trap, a money-box for five-franc pieces! The girl is the
Queen of<br>
 Trollops; and nowadays she humbugs every one--she who knew
nothing,<br>
 not even that word."</p>

<p>At this stage the retired perfumer wiped his eyes, which were
full of<br>
 tears. The sincerity of his grief touched Madame Hulot, and
roused her<br>
 from the meditation into which she had sunk.</p>

<p>"Tell me, madame, is a man of fifty-two likely to find such
another<br>
 jewel? At my age love costs thirty thousand francs a year. It
is<br>
 through your husband's experience that I know the price, and I
love<br>
 Celestine too truly to be her ruin. When I saw you, at the
first<br>
 evening party you gave in our honor, I wondered how that
scoundrel<br>
 Hulot could keep a Jenny Cadine--you had the manner of an
Empress. You<br>
 do not look thirty," he went on. "To me, madame, you look young,
and<br>
 you are beautiful. On my word of honor, that evening I was
struck to<br>
 the heart. I said to myself, 'If I had not Josepha, since old
Hulot<br>
 neglects his wife, she would fit me like a glove.' Forgive
me--it is a<br>
 reminiscence of my old business. The perfumer will crop up now
and<br>
 then, and that is what keeps me from standing to be elected
deputy.</p>

<p>"And then, when I was so abominably deceived by the Baron, for
really<br>
 between old rips like us our friend's mistress should be sacred,
I<br>
 swore I would have his wife. It is but justice. The Baron could
say<br>
 nothing; we are certain of impunity. You showed me the door like
a<br>
 mangy dog at the first words I uttered as to the state of my
feelings;<br>
 you only made my passion--my obstinacy, if you will--twice as
strong,<br>
 and you shall be mine."</p>

<p>"Indeed; how?"</p>

<p>"I do not know; but it will come to pass. You see, madame, an
idiot of<br>
 a perfumer--retired from business--who has but one idea in his
head,<br>
 is stronger than a clever fellow who has a thousand. I am
smitten with<br>
 you, and you are the means of my revenge; it is like being in
love<br>
 twice over. I am speaking to you quite frankly, as a man who
knows<br>
 what he means. I speak coldly to you, just as you do to me, when
you<br>
 say, 'I never will be yours,' In fact, as they say, I play the
game<br>
 with the cards on the table. Yes, you shall be mine, sooner or
later;<br>
 if you were fifty, you should still be my mistress. And it will
be;<br>
 for I expect anything from your husband!"</p>

<p>Madame Hulot looked at this vulgar intriguer with such a fixed
stare<br>
 of terror, that he thought she had gone mad, and he stopped.</p>

<p>"You insisted on it, you heaped me with scorn, you defied
me--and I<br>
 have spoken," said he, feeling that he must justify the ferocity
of<br>
 his last words.</p>

<p>"Oh, my daughter, my daughter," moaned the Baroness in a voice
like a<br>
 dying woman's.</p>

<p>"Oh! I have forgotten all else," Crevel went on. "The day when
I was<br>
 robbed of Josepha I was like a tigress robbed of her cubs; in
short,<br>
 as you see me now.--Your daughter? Yes, I regard her as the
means of<br>
 winning you. Yes, I put a spoke in her marriage--and you will
not get<br>
 her married without my help! Handsome as Mademoiselle Hortense
is, she<br>
 needs a fortune----"</p>

<p>"Alas! yes," said the Baroness, wiping her eyes.</p>

<p>"Well, just ask your husband for ten thousand francs," said
Crevel,<br>
 striking his attitude once more. He waited a minute, like an
actor who<br>
 has made a point.</p>

<p>"If he had the money, he would give it to the woman who will
take<br>
 Josepha's place," he went on, emphasizing his tones. "Does a man
ever<br>
 pull up on the road he has taken? In the first place, he is too
sweet<br>
 on women. There is a happy medium in all things, as our King has
told<br>
 us. And then his vanity is implicated! He is a handsome man!--He
would<br>
 bring you all to ruin for his pleasure; in fact, you are already
on<br>
 the highroad to the workhouse. Why, look, never since I set foot
in<br>
 your house have you been able to do up your drawing-room
furniture.<br>
 'Hard up' is the word shouted by every slit in the stuff. Where
will<br>
 you find a son-in-law who would not turn his back in horror of
the<br>
 ill-concealed evidence of the most cruel misery there is--that
of<br>
 people in decent society? I have kept shop, and I know. There is
no<br>
 eye so quick as that of the Paris tradesman to detect real
wealth from<br>
 its sham.--You have no money," he said, in a lower voice. "It
is<br>
 written everywhere, even on your man-servant's coat.</p>

<p>"Would you like me to disclose any more hideous mysteries that
are<br>
 kept from you?"</p>

<p>"Monsieur," cried Madame Hulot, whose handkerchief was wet
through<br>
 with her tears, "enough, enough!"</p>

<p>"My son-in-law, I tell you, gives his father money, and this
is what I<br>
 particularly wanted to come to when I began by speaking of your
son's<br>
 expenses. But I keep an eye on my daughter's interests, be
easy."</p>

<p>"Oh, if I could but see my daughter married, and die!" cried
the poor<br>
 woman, quite losing her head.</p>

<p>"Well, then, this is the way," said the ex-perfumer.</p>

<p>Madame Hulot looked at Crevel with a hopeful expression, which
so<br>
 completely changed her countenance, that this alone ought to
have<br>
 touched the man's feelings and have led him to abandon his
monstrous<br>
 schemes.</p>

<p>"You will still be handsome ten years hence," Crevel went on,
with his<br>
 arms folded; "be kind to me, and Mademoiselle Hulot will marry.
Hulot<br>
 has given me the right, as I have explained to you, to put the
matter<br>
 crudely, and he will not be angry. In three years I have saved
the<br>
 interest on my capital, for my dissipations have been
restricted. I<br>
 have three hundred thousand francs in the bank over and above
my<br>
 invested fortune--they are yours----"</p>

<p>"Go," said Madame Hulot. "Go, monsieur, and never let me see
you<br>
 again. But for the necessity in which you placed me to learn
the<br>
 secret of your cowardly conduct with regard to the match I had
planned<br>
 for Hortense--yes, cowardly!" she repeated, in answer to a
gesture<br>
 from Crevel. "How can you load a poor girl, a pretty,
innocent<br>
 creature, with such a weight of enmity? But for the necessity
that<br>
 goaded me as a mother, you would never have spoken to me again,
never<br>
 again have come within my doors. Thirty-two years of an
honorable and<br>
 loyal life shall not be swept away by a blow from Monsieur
Crevel----"</p>

<p>"The retired perfumer, successor to Cesar Birotteau at the
<i>Queen of<br>
 the Roses</i>, Rue Saint-Honore," added Crevel, in mocking
tones.<br>
 "Deputy-mayor, captain in the National Guard, Chevalier of the
Legion<br>
 of Honor--exactly what my predecessor was!"</p>

<p>"Monsieur," said the Baroness, "if, after twenty years of
constancy,<br>
 Monsieur Hulot is tired of his wife, that is nobody's concern
but<br>
 mine. As you see, he has kept his infidelity a mystery, for I
did not<br>
 know that he had succeeded you in the affections of
Mademoiselle<br>
 Josepha----"</p>

<p>"Oh, it has cost him a pretty penny, madame. His singing-bird
has cost<br>
 him more than a hundred thousand francs in these two years. Ah,
ha!<br>
 you have not seen the end of it!"</p>

<p>"Have done with all this, Monsieur Crevel. I will not, for
your sake,<br>
 forego the happiness a mother knows who can embrace her
children<br>
 without a single pang of remorse in her heart, who sees
herself<br>
 respected and loved by her family; and I will give up my soul to
God<br>
 unspotted----"</p>

<p>"Amen!" exclaimed Crevel, with the diabolical rage that
embitters the<br>
 face of these pretenders when they fail for the second time in
such an<br>
 attempt. "You do not yet know the latter end of
poverty--shame,<br>
 disgrace.--I have tried to warn you; I would have saved you, you
and<br>
 your daughter. Well, you must study the modern parable of
the<br>
 <i>Prodigal Father</i> from A to Z. Your tears and your pride
move me<br>
 deeply," said Crevel, seating himself, "for it is frightful to
see the<br>
 woman one loves weeping. All I can promise you, dear Adeline, is
to do<br>
 nothing against your interests or your husband's. Only never
send to<br>
 me for information. That is all."</p>

<p>"What is to be done?" cried Madame Hulot.</p>

<p>Up to now the Baroness had bravely faced the threefold torment
which<br>
 this explanation inflicted on her; for she was wounded as a
woman, as<br>
 a mother, and as a wife. In fact, so long as her son's
father-in-law<br>
 was insolent and offensive, she had found the strength in
her<br>
 resistance to the aggressive tradesman; but the sort of
good-nature he<br>
 showed, in spite of his exasperation as a mortified adorer and
as a<br>
 humiliated National Guardsman, broke down her nerve, strung to
the<br>
 point of snapping. She wrung her hands, melted into tears, and
was in<br>
 a state of such helpless dejection, that she allowed Crevel to
kneel<br>
 at her feet, kissing her hands.</p>

<p>"Good God! what will become of us!" she went on, wiping away
her<br>
 tears. "Can a mother sit still and see her child pine away
before her<br>
 eyes? What is to be the fate of that splendid creature, as
strong in<br>
 her pure life under her mother's care as she is by every gift
of<br>
 nature? There are days when she wanders round the garden, out
of<br>
 spirits without knowing why; I find her with tears in her
eyes----"</p>

<p>"She is one-and-twenty," said Crevel.</p>

<p>"Must I place her in a convent?" asked the Baroness. "But in
such<br>
 cases religion is impotent to subdue nature, and the most
piously<br>
 trained girls lose their head!--Get up, pray, monsieur; do you
not<br>
 understand that everything is final between us? that I look upon
you<br>
 with horror? that you have crushed a mother's last
hopes----"</p>

<p>"But if I were to restore them," asked he.</p>

<p>Madame Hulot looked at Crevel with a frenzied expression that
really<br>
 touched him. But he drove pity back to the depths of his heart;
she<br>
 had said, "I look upon you with horror."</p>

<p>Virtue is always a little too rigid; it overlooks the shades
and<br>
 instincts by help of which we are able to tack when in a
false<br>
 position.</p>

<p>"So handsome a girl as Mademoiselle Hortense does not find a
husband<br>
 nowadays if she is penniless," Crevel remarked, resuming his<br>
 starchiest manner. "Your daughter is one of those beauties who
rather<br>
 alarm intending husbands; like a thoroughbred horse, which is
too<br>
 expensive to keep up to find a ready purchaser. If you go out
walking<br>
 with such a woman on your arm, every one will turn to look at
you, and<br>
 follow and covet his neighbor's wife. Such success is a source
of much<br>
 uneasiness to men who do not want to be killing lovers; for,
after<br>
 all, no man kills more than one. In the position in which you
find<br>
 yourself there are just three ways of getting your daughter
married:<br>
 Either by my help--and you will have none of it! That is
one.--Or by<br>
 finding some old man of sixty, very rich, childless, and anxious
to<br>
 have children; that is difficult, still such men are to be met
with.<br>
 Many old men take up with a Josepha, a Jenny Cadine, why should
not<br>
 one be found who is ready to make a fool of himself under
legal<br>
 formalities? If it were not for Celestine and our two
grandchildren, I<br>
 would marry Hortense myself. That is two.--The last way is
the<br>
 easiest----"</p>

<p>Madame Hulot raised her head, and looked uneasily at the
ex-perfumer.</p>

<p>"Paris is a town whither every man of energy--and they sprout
like<br>
 saplings on French soil--comes to meet his kind; talent swarms
here<br>
 without hearth or home, and energy equal to anything, even to
making a<br>
 fortune. Well, these youngsters--your humble servant was such a
one in<br>
 his time, and how many he has known! What had du Tillet or
Popinot<br>
 twenty years since? They were both pottering round in Daddy<br>
 Birotteau's shop, with not a penny of capital but their
determination<br>
 to get on, which, in my opinion, is the best capital a man can
have.<br>
 Money may be eaten through, but you don't eat through your<br>
 determination. Why, what had I? The will to get on, and plenty
of<br>
 pluck. At this day du Tillet is a match for the greatest folks;
little<br>
 Popinot, the richest druggist of the Rue des Lombards, became
a<br>
 deputy, now he is in office.--Well, one of these free lances, as
we<br>
 say on the stock market, of the pen, or of the brush, is the
only man<br>
 in Paris who would marry a penniless beauty, for they have
courage<br>
 enough for anything. Monsieur Popinot married Mademoiselle
Birotteau<br>
 without asking for a farthing. Those men are madmen, to be sure!
They<br>
 trust in love as they trust in good luck and brains!--Find a man
of<br>
 energy who will fall in love with your daughter, and he will
marry<br>
 without a thought of money. You must confess that by way of an
enemy I<br>
 am not ungenerous, for this advice is against my own
interests."</p>

<p>"Oh, Monsieur Crevel, if you would indeed be my friend and
give up<br>
 your ridiculous notions----"</p>

<p>"Ridiculous? Madame, do not run yourself down. Look at
yourself--I<br>
 love you, and you will come to be mine. The day will come when I
shall<br>
 say to Hulot, 'You took Josepha, I have taken your wife!'</p>

<p>"It is the old law of tit-for-tat! And I will persevere till I
have<br>
 attained my end, unless you should become extremely ugly.--I
shall<br>
 succeed; and I will tell you why," he went on, resuming his
attitude,<br>
 and looking at Madame Hulot. "You will not meet with such an old
man,<br>
 or such a young lover," he said after a pause, "because you love
your<br>
 daughter too well to hand her over to the manoeuvres of an
old<br>
 libertine, and because you--the Baronne Hulot, sister of the
old<br>
 Lieutenant-General who commanded the veteran Grenadiers of the
Old<br>
 Guard--will not condescend to take a man of spirit wherever you
may<br>
 find him; for he might be a mere craftsman, as many a
millionaire of<br>
 to-day was ten years ago, a working artisan, or the foreman of
a<br>
 factory.</p>

<p><br>
 "And then, when you see the girl, urged by her twenty years,
capable<br>
 of dishonoring you all, you will say to yourself, 'It will be
better<br>
 that I should fall! If Monsieur Crevel will but keep my secret,
I will<br>
 earn my daughter's portion--two hundred thousand francs for ten
years'<br>
 attachment to that old gloveseller--old Crevel!'--I disgust you
no<br>
 doubt, and what I am saying is horribly immoral, you think? But
if you<br>
 happened to have been bitten by an overwhelming passion, you
would<br>
 find a thousand arguments in favor of yielding--as women do when
they<br>
 are in love.--Yes, and Hortense's interests will suggest to
your<br>
 feelings such terms of surrendering your conscience----"</p>

<p>"Hortense has still an uncle."</p>

<p>"What! Old Fischer? He is winding up his concerns, and that
again is<br>
 the Baron's fault; his rake is dragged over every till within
his<br>
 reach."</p>

<p>"Comte Hulot----"</p>

<p>"Oh, madame, your husband has already made thin air of the
old<br>
 General's savings. He spent them in furnishing his singer's
rooms.--<br>
 Now, come; am I to go without a hope?"</p>

<p>"Good-bye, monsieur. A man easily gets over a passion for a
woman of<br>
 my age, and you will fall back on Christian principles. God
takes care<br>
 of the wretched----"</p>

<p>The Baroness rose to oblige the captain to retreat, and drove
him back<br>
 into the drawing-room.</p>

<p>"Ought the beautiful Madame Hulot to be living amid such
squalor?"<br>
 said he, and he pointed to an old lamp, a chandelier bereft of
its<br>
 gilding, the threadbare carpet, the very rags of wealth which
made the<br>
 large room, with its red, white, and gold, look like a corpse
of<br>
 Imperial festivities.</p>

<p>"Monsieur, virtue shines on it all. I have no wish to owe a
handsome<br>
 abode to having made of the beauty you are pleased to ascribe to
me a<br>
 <i>man-trap</i> and <i>a money-box for five-franc
pieces</i>!"</p>

<p>The captain bit his lips as he recognized the words he had
used to<br>
 vilify Josepha's avarice.</p>

<p>"And for whom are you so magnanimous?" said he. By this time
the<br>
 baroness had got her rejected admirer as far as the door.--"For
a<br>
 libertine!" said he, with a lofty grimace of virtue and
superior<br>
 wealth.</p>

<p>"If you are right, my constancy has some merit, monsieur. That
is<br>
 all."</p>

<p>After bowing to the officer as a woman bows to dismiss an
importune<br>
 visitor, she turned away too quickly to see him once more fold
his<br>
 arms. She unlocked the doors she had closed, and did not see
the<br>
 threatening gesture which was Crevel's parting greeting. She
walked<br>
 with a proud, defiant step, like a martyr to the Coliseum, but
her<br>
 strength was exhausted; she sank on the sofa in her blue room,
as if<br>
 she were ready to faint, and sat there with her eyes fixed on
the<br>
 tumble-down summer-house, where her daughter was gossiping with
Cousin<br>
 Betty.</p>

<p>From the first days of her married life to the present time
the<br>
 Baroness had loved her husband, as Josephine in the end had
loved<br>
 Napoleon, with an admiring, maternal, and cowardly devotion.
Though<br>
 ignorant of the details given her by Crevel, she knew that for
twenty<br>
 years past Baron Hulot been anything rather than a faithful
husband;<br>
 but she had sealed her eyes with lead, she had wept in silence,
and no<br>
 word of reproach had ever escaped her. In return for this
angelic<br>
 sweetness, she had won her husband's veneration and
something<br>
 approaching to worship from all who were about her.</p>

<p>A wife's affection for her husband and the respect she pays
him are<br>
 infectious in a family. Hortense believed her father to be a
perfect<br>
 model of conjugal affection; as to their son, brought up to
admire the<br>
 Baron, whom everybody regarded as one of the giants who so
effectually<br>
 backed Napoleon, he knew that he owed his advancement to his
father's<br>
 name, position, and credit; and besides, the impressions of
childhood<br>
 exert an enduring influence. He still was afraid of his father;
and if<br>
 he had suspected the misdeeds revealed by Crevel, as he was too
much<br>
 overawed by him to find fault, he would have found excuses in
the view<br>
 every man takes of such matters.</p>

<p>It now will be necessary to give the reasons for the
extraordinary<br>
 self-devotion of a good and beautiful woman; and this, in a few
words,<br>
 is her past history.</p>

<p>Three brothers, simple laboring men, named Fischer, and living
in a<br>
 village situated on the furthest frontier of Lorraine, were
compelled<br>
 by the Republican conscription to set out with the so-called
army of<br>
 the Rhine.</p>

<p>In 1799 the second brother, Andre, a widower, and Madame
Hulot's<br>
 father, left his daughter to the care of his elder brother,
Pierre<br>
 Fischer, disabled from service by a wound received in 1797, and
made a<br>
 small private venture in the military transport service, an
opening he<br>
 owed to the favor of Hulot d'Ervy, who was high in the
commissariat.<br>
 By a very obvious chance Hulot, coming to Strasbourg, saw the
Fischer<br>
 family. Adeline's father and his younger brother were at that
time<br>
 contractors for forage in the province of Alsace.</p>

<p>Adeline, then sixteen years of age, might be compared with the
famous<br>
 Madame du Barry, like her, a daughter of Lorraine. She was one
of<br>
 those perfect and striking beauties--a woman like Madame
Tallien,<br>
 finished with peculiar care by Nature, who bestows on them all
her<br>
 choicest gifts--distinction, dignity, grace, refinement,
elegance,<br>
 flesh of a superior texture, and a complexion mingled in the
unknown<br>
 laboratory where good luck presides. These beautiful creatures
all<br>
 have something in common: Bianca Capella, whose portrait is one
of<br>
 Bronzino's masterpieces; Jean Goujon's Venus, painted from the
famous<br>
 Diane de Poitiers; Signora Olympia, whose picture adorns the
Doria<br>
 gallery; Ninon, Madame du Barry, Madame Tallien, Mademoiselle
Georges,<br>
 Madame Recamier.--all these women who preserved their beauty in
spite<br>
 of years, of passion, and of their life of excess and pleasure,
have<br>
 in figure, frame, and in the character of their beauty
certain<br>
 striking resemblances, enough to make one believe that there is
in the<br>
 ocean of generations an Aphrodisian current whence every such
Venus is<br>
 born, all daughters of the same salt wave.</p>

<p>Adeline Fischer, one of the loveliest of this race of
goddesses, had<br>
 the splendid type, the flowing lines, the exquisite texture of a
woman<br>
 born a queen. The fair hair that our mother Eve received from
the hand<br>
 of God, the form of an Empress, an air of grandeur, and an
august line<br>
 of profile, with her rural modesty, made every man pause in
delight as<br>
 she passed, like amateurs in front of a Raphael; in short,
having once<br>
 seen her, the Commissariat officer made Mademoiselle Adeline
Fischer<br>
 his wife as quickly as the law would permit, to the great
astonishment<br>
 of the Fischers, who had all been brought up in the fear of
their<br>
 betters.</p>

<p>The eldest, a soldier of 1792, severely wounded in the attack
on the<br>
 lines at Wissembourg, adored the Emperor Napoleon and everything
that<br>
 had to do with the <i>Grande Armee</i>. Andre and Johann spoke
with respect<br>
 of Commissary Hulot, the Emperor's protege, to whom indeed they
owed<br>
 their prosperity; for Hulot d'Ervy, finding them intelligent
and<br>
 honest, had taken them from the army provision wagons to place
them in<br>
 charge of a government contract needing despatch. The brothers
Fischer<br>
 had done further service during the campaign of 1804. At the
peace<br>
 Hulot had secured for them the contract for forage from Alsace,
not<br>
 knowing that he would presently be sent to Strasbourg to prepare
for<br>
 the campaign of 1806.</p>

<p>This marriage was like an Assumption to the young peasant
girl. The<br>
 beautiful Adeline was translated at once from the mire of her
village<br>
 to the paradise of the Imperial Court; for the contractor, one
of the<br>
 most conscientious and hard-working of the Commissariat staff,
was<br>
 made a Baron, obtained a place near the Emperor, and was
attached to<br>
 the Imperial Guard. The handsome rustic bravely set to work to
educate<br>
 herself for love of her husband, for she was simply crazy about
him;<br>
 and, indeed, the Commissariat office was as a man a perfect
match for<br>
 Adeline as a woman. He was one of the picked corps of fine men.
Tall,<br>
 well-built, fair, with beautiful blue eyes full of irresistible
fire<br>
 and life, his elegant appearance made him remarkable by the side
of<br>
 d'Orsay, Forbin, Ouvrard; in short, in the battalion of fine men
that<br>
 surrounded the Emperor. A conquering "buck," and holding the
ideas of<br>
 the Directoire with regard to women, his career of gallantry
was<br>
 interrupted for some long time by his conjugal affection.</p>

<p>To Adeline the Baron was from the first a sort of god who
could do no<br>
 wrong. To him she owed everything: fortune--she had a carriage,
a fine<br>
 house, every luxury of the day; happiness--he was devoted to her
in<br>
 the face of the world; a title, for she was a Baroness; fame,
for she<br>
 was spoken of as the beautiful Madame Hulot--and in Paris!
Finally,<br>
 she had the honor of refusing the Emperor's advances, for
Napoleon<br>
 made her a present of a diamond necklace, and always remembered
her,<br>
 asking now and again, "And is the beautiful Madame Hulot still a
model<br>
 of virtue?" in the tone of a man who might have taken his
revenge on<br>
 one who should have triumphed where he had failed.</p>

<p>So it needs no great intuition to discern what were the
motives in a<br>
 simple, guileless, and noble soul for the fanaticism of Madame
Hulot's<br>
 love. Having fully persuaded herself that her husband could do
her no<br>
 wrong, she made herself in the depths of her heart the humble,
abject,<br>
 and blindfold slave of the man who had made her. It must be
noted,<br>
 too, that she was gifted with great good sense--the good sense
of the<br>
 people, which made her education sound. In society she spoke
little,<br>
 and never spoke evil of any one; she did not try to shine; she
thought<br>
 out many things, listened well, and formed herself on the model
of the<br>
 best-conducted women of good birth.</p>

<p>In 1815 Hulot followed the lead of the Prince de Wissembourg,
his<br>
 intimate friend, and became one of the officers who organized
the<br>
 improvised troops whose rout brought the Napoleonic cycle to a
close<br>
 at Waterloo. In 1816 the Baron was one of the men best hated by
the<br>
 Feltre administration, and was not reinstated in the
Commissariat till<br>
 1823, when he was needed for the Spanish war. In 1830 he took
office<br>
 as the fourth wheel of the coach, at the time of the levies, a
sort of<br>
 conscription made by Louis Philippe on the old Napoleonic
soldiery.<br>
 From the time when the younger branch ascended the throne,
having<br>
 taken an active part in bringing that about, he was regarded as
an<br>
 indispensable authority at the War Office. He had already won
his<br>
 Marshal's baton, and the King could do no more for him unless
by<br>
 making him minister or a peer of France.</p>

<p>From 1818 till 1823, having no official occupation, Baron
Hulot had<br>
 gone on active service to womankind. Madame Hulot dated her
Hector's<br>
 first infidelities from the grand <i>finale</i> of the Empire.
Thus, for<br>
 twelve years the Baroness had filled the part in her household
of<br>
 <i>prima donna assoluta</i>, without a rival. She still could
boast of the<br>
 old-fashioned, inveterate affection which husbands feel for
wives who<br>
 are resigned to be gentle and virtuous helpmates; she knew that
if she<br>
 had a rival, that rival would not subsist for two hours under a
word<br>
 of reproof from herself; but she shut her eyes, she stopped her
ears,<br>
 she would know nothing of her husband's proceedings outside his
home.<br>
 In short, she treated her Hector as a mother treats a spoilt
child.</p>

<p>Three years before the conversation reported above, Hortense,
at the<br>
 Theatre des Varietes, had recognized her father in a lower tier
stage-<br>
 box with Jenny Cadine, and had exclaimed:</p>

<p>"There is papa!"</p>

<p>"You are mistaken, my darling; he is at the Marshal's," the
Baroness<br>
 replied.</p>

<p>She too had seen Jenny Cadine; but instead of feeling a pang
when she<br>
 saw how pretty she was, she said to herself, "That rascal Hector
must<br>
 think himself very lucky."</p>

<p>She suffered nevertheless; she gave herself up in secret to
rages of<br>
 torment; but as soon as she saw Hector, she always remembered
her<br>
 twelve years of perfect happiness, and could not find it in her
to<br>
 utter a word of complaint. She would have been glad if the Baron
would<br>
 have taken her into his confidence; but she never dared to let
him see<br>
 that she knew of his kicking over the traces, out of respect for
her<br>
 husband. Such an excess of delicacy is never met with but in
those<br>
 grand creatures, daughters of the soil, whose instinct it is to
take<br>
 blows without ever returning them; the blood of the early
martyrs<br>
 still lives in their veins. Well-born women, their husbands'
equals,<br>
 feel the impulse to annoy them, to mark the points of their
tolerance,<br>
 like points at billiards, by some stinging word, partly in the
spirit<br>
 of diabolical malice, and to secure the upper hand or the right
of<br>
 turning the tables.</p>

<p><br>
 The Baroness had an ardent admirer in her brother-in-law,
Lieutenant-<br>
 General Hulot, the venerable Colonel of the Grenadiers of the
Imperial<br>
 Infantry Guard, who was to have a Marshal's baton in his old
age. This<br>
 veteran, after having served from 1830 to 1834 as Commandant of
the<br>
 military division, including the departments of Brittany, the
scene of<br>
 his exploits in 1799 and 1800, had come to settle in Paris near
his<br>
 brother, for whom he had a fatherly affection.</p>

<p>This old soldier's heart was in sympathy with his
sister-in-law; he<br>
 admired her as the noblest and saintliest of her sex. He had
never<br>
 married, because he hoped to find a second Adeline, though he
had<br>
 vainly sought for her through twenty campaigns in as many lands.
To<br>
 maintain her place in the esteem of this blameless and spotless
old<br>
 republican--of whom Napoleon had said, "That brave old Hulot is
the<br>
 most obstinate republican, but he will never be false to
me"--Adeline<br>
 would have endured griefs even greater than those that had just
come<br>
 upon her. But the old soldier, seventy-two years of age,
battered by<br>
 thirty campaigns, and wounded for the twenty-seventh time at
Waterloo,<br>
 was Adeline's admirer, and not a "protector." The poor old
Count,<br>
 among other infirmities, could only hear through a speaking
trumpet.</p>

<p>So long as Baron Hulot d'Ervy was a fine man, his flirtations
did not<br>
 damage his fortune; but when a man is fifty, the Graces claim
payment.<br>
 At that age love becomes vice; insensate vanities come into
play.<br>
 Thus, at about that time, Adeline saw that her husband was
incredibly<br>
 particular about his dress; he dyed his hair and whiskers, and
wore a<br>
 belt and stays. He was determined to remain handsome at any
cost. This<br>
 care of his person, a weakness he had once mercilessly mocked
at, was<br>
 carried out in the minutest details.</p>

<p>At last Adeline perceived that the Pactolus poured out before
the<br>
 Baron's mistresses had its source in her pocket. In eight years
he had<br>
 dissipated a considerable amount of money; and so effectually,
that,<br>
 on his son's marriage two years previously, the Baron had
been<br>
 compelled to explain to his wife that his pay constituted their
whole<br>
 income.</p>

<p>"What shall we come to?" asked Adeline.</p>

<p>"Be quite easy," said the official, "I will leave the whole of
my<br>
 salary in your hands, and I will make a fortune for Hortense,
and some<br>
 savings for the future, in business."</p>

<p>The wife's deep belief in her husband's power and superior
talents, in<br>
 his capabilities and character, had, in fact, for the moment
allayed<br>
 her anxiety.</p>

<p>What the Baroness' reflections and tears were after Crevel's
departure<br>
 may now be clearly imagined. The poor woman had for two years
past<br>
 known that she was at the bottom of a pit, but she had fancied
herself<br>
 alone in it. How her son's marriage had been finally arranged
she had<br>
 not known; she had known nothing of Hector's connection with
the<br>
 grasping Jewess; and, above all, she hoped that no one in the
world<br>
 knew anything of her troubles. Now, if Crevel went about so
ready to<br>
 talk of the Baron's excesses, Hector's reputation would suffer.
She<br>
 could see, under the angry ex-perfumer's coarse harangue, the
odious<br>
 gossip behind the scenes which led to her son's marriage.
Two<br>
 reprobate hussies had been the priestesses of this union planned
at<br>
 some orgy amid the degrading familiarities of two tipsy old
sinners.</p>

<p>"And has he forgotten Hortense!" she wondered.</p>

<p>"But he sees her every day; will he try to find her a husband
among<br>
 his good-for-nothing sluts?"</p>

<p>At this moment it was the mother that spoke rather than the
wife, for<br>
 she saw Hortense laughing with her Cousin Betty--the reckless
laughter<br>
 of heedless youth; and she knew that such hysterical laughter
was<br>
 quite as distressing a symptom as the tearful reverie of
solitary<br>
 walks in the garden.</p>

<p>Hortense was like her mother, with golden hair that waved
naturally,<br>
 and was amazingly long and thick. Her skin had the lustre of
mother-<br>
 of-pearl. She was visibly the offspring of a true marriage, of a
pure<br>
 and noble love in its prime. There was a passionate vitality in
her<br>
 countenance, a brilliancy of feature, a full fount of youth, a
fresh<br>
 vigor and abundance of health, which radiated from her with
electric<br>
 flashes. Hortense invited the eye.</p>

<p>When her eye, of deep ultramarine blue, liquid with the
moisture of<br>
 innocent youth, rested on a passer-by, he was involuntarily
thrilled.<br>
 Nor did a single freckle mar her skin, such as those with which
many a<br>
 white and golden maid pays toll for her milky whiteness. Tall,
round<br>
 without being fat, with a slender dignity as noble as her
mother's,<br>
 she really deserved the name of goddess, of which old authors
were so<br>
 lavish. In fact, those who saw Hortense in the street could
hardly<br>
 restrain the exclamation, "What a beautiful girl!"</p>

<p>She was so genuinely innocent, that she could say to her
mother:</p>

<p>"What do they mean, mamma, by calling me a beautiful girl when
I am<br>
 with you? Are not you much handsomer than I am?"</p>

<p>And, in point of fact, at seven-and-forty the Baroness might
have been<br>
 preferred to her daughter by amateurs of sunset beauty; for she
had<br>
 not yet lost any of her charms, by one of those phenomena which
are<br>
 especially rare in Paris, where Ninon was regarded as
scandalous,<br>
 simply because she thus seemed to enjoy such an unfair advantage
over<br>
 the plainer women of the seventeenth century.</p>

<p>Thinking of her daughter brought her back to the father; she
saw him<br>
 sinking by degrees, day after day, down to the social mire, and
even<br>
 dismissed some day from his appointment. The idea of her idol's
fall,<br>
 with a vague vision of the disasters prophesied by Crevel, was
such a<br>
 terror to the poor woman, that she became rapt in the
contemplation<br>
 like an ecstatic.</p>

<p>Cousin Betty, from time to time, as she chatted with Hortense,
looked<br>
 round to see when they might return to the drawing-room; but her
young<br>
 cousin was pelting her with questions, and at the moment when
the<br>
 Baroness opened the glass door she did not happen to be
looking.</p>

<p>Lisbeth Fischer, though the daughter of the eldest of the
three<br>
 brothers, was five years younger than Madame Hulot; she was far
from<br>
 being as handsome as her cousin, and had been desperately
jealous of<br>
 Adeline. Jealousy was the fundamental passion of this
character,<br>
 marked by eccentricities--a word invented by the English to
describe<br>
 the craziness not of the asylum, but of respectable households.
A<br>
 native of the Vosges, a peasant in the fullest sense of the
word,<br>
 lean, brown, with shining black hair and thick eyebrows joining
in a<br>
 tuft, with long, strong arms, thick feet, and some moles on her
narrow<br>
 simian face--such is a brief description of the elderly
virgin.</p>

<p>The family, living all under one roof, had sacrificed the
common-<br>
 looking girl to the beauty, the bitter fruit to the splendid
flower.<br>
 Lisbeth worked in the fields, while her cousin was indulged; and
one<br>
 day, when they were alone together, she had tried to destroy
Adeline's<br>
 nose, a truly Greek nose, which the old mothers admired. Though
she<br>
 was beaten for this misdeed, she persisted nevertheless in
tearing the<br>
 favorite's gowns and crumpling her collars.</p>

<p>At the time of Adeline's wonderful marriage, Lisbeth had bowed
to<br>
 fate, as Napoleon's brothers and sisters bowed before the
splendor of<br>
 the throne and the force of authority.</p>

<p>Adeline, who was extremely sweet and kind, remembered Lisbeth
when she<br>
 found herself in Paris, and invited her there in 1809, intending
to<br>
 rescue her from poverty by finding her a husband. But seeing
that it<br>
 was impossible to marry the girl out of hand, with her black
eyes and<br>
 sooty brows, unable, too, to read or write, the Baron began
by<br>
 apprenticing her to a business; he placed her as a learner with
the<br>
 embroiderers to the Imperial Court, the well-known Pons
Brothers.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, called Betty for short, having learned to embroider
in gold<br>
 and silver, and possessing all the energy of a mountain race,
had<br>
 determination enough to learn to read, write, and keep accounts;
for<br>
 her cousin the Baron had pointed out the necessity for these<br>
 accomplishments if she hoped to set up in business as an
embroiderer.</p>

<p>She was bent on making a fortune; in two years she was
another<br>
 creature. In 1811 the peasant woman had become a very
presentable,<br>
 skilled, and intelligent forewoman.</p>

<p>Her department, that of gold and silver lace-work, as it is
called,<br>
 included epaulettes, sword-knots, aiguillettes; in short, the
immense<br>
 mass of glittering ornaments that sparkled on the rich uniforms
of the<br>
 French army and civil officials. The Emperor, a true Italian in
his<br>
 love of dress, had overlaid the coats of all his servants with
silver<br>
 and gold, and the Empire included a hundred and thirty-three<br>
 Departments. These ornaments, usually supplied to tailors who
were<br>
 solvent and wealthy paymasters, were a very secure branch of
trade.</p>

<p>Just when Cousin Betty, the best hand in the house of Pons
Brothers,<br>
 where she was forewoman of the embroidery department, might have
set<br>
 up in business on her own account, the Empire collapsed. The
olive-<br>
 branch of peace held out by the Bourbons did not reassure
Lisbeth; she<br>
 feared a diminution of this branch of trade, since henceforth
there<br>
 were to be but eighty-six Departments to plunder, instead of a
hundred<br>
 and thirty-three, to say nothing of the immense reduction of the
army.<br>
 Utterly scared by the ups and downs of industry, she refused
the<br>
 Baron's offers of help, and he thought she must be mad. She
confirmed<br>
 this opinion by quarreling with Monsieur Rivet, who bought
the<br>
 business of Pons Brothers, and with whom the Baron wished to
place her<br>
 in partnership; she would be no more than a workwoman. Thus
the<br>
 Fischer family had relapsed into the precarious mediocrity from
which<br>
 Baron Hulot had raised it.</p>

<p>The three brothers Fischer, who had been ruined by the
abdication at<br>
 Fontainebleau, in despair joined the irregular troops in 1815.
The<br>
 eldest, Lisbeth's father, was killed. Adeline's father,
sentenced to<br>
 death by court-martial, fled to Germany, and died at Treves in
1820.<br>
 Johann, the youngest, came to Paris, a petitioner to the queen
of the<br>
 family, who was said to dine off gold and silver plate, and
never to<br>
 be seen at a party but with diamonds in her hair as big as
hazel-nuts,<br>
 given to her by the Emperor.</p>

<p>Johann Fischer, then aged forty-three, obtained from Baron
Hulot a<br>
 capital of ten thousand francs with which to start a small
business as<br>
 forage-dealer at Versailles, under the patronage of the War
Office,<br>
 through the influence of the friends still in office, of the
late<br>
 Commissary-General.</p>

<p>These family catastrophes, Baron Hulot's dismissal, and the
knowledge<br>
 that he was a mere cipher in that immense stir of men and
interests<br>
 and things which makes Paris at once a paradise and a hell,
quite<br>
 quelled Lisbeth Fischer. She gave up all idea of rivalry and<br>
 comparison with her cousin after feeling her great superiority;
but<br>
 envy still lurked in her heart, like a plague-germ that may
hatch and<br>
 devastate a city if the fatal bale of wool is opened in which it
is<br>
 concealed.</p>

<p>Now and again, indeed, she said to herself:</p>

<p>"Adeline and I are the same flesh and blood, our fathers were
brothers<br>
 --and she is in a mansion, while I am in a garret."</p>

<p>But every New Year Lisbeth had presents from the Baron and
Baroness;<br>
 the Baron, who was always good to her, paid for her firewood in
the<br>
 winter; old General Hulot had her to dinner once a week; and
there was<br>
 always a cover laid for her at her cousin's table. They laughed
at her<br>
 no doubt, but they never were ashamed to own her. In short, they
had<br>
 made her independent in Paris, where she lived as she
pleased.</p>

<p>The old maid had, in fact, a terror of any kind of tie. Her
cousin had<br>
 offered her a room in her own house--Lisbeth suspected the
halter of<br>
 domestic servitude; several times the Baron had found a solution
of<br>
 the difficult problem of her marriage; but though tempted in the
first<br>
 instance, she would presently decline, fearing lest she should
be<br>
 scorned for her want of education, her general ignorance, and
her<br>
 poverty; finally, when the Baroness suggested that she should
live<br>
 with their uncle Johann, and keep house for him, instead of the
upper<br>
 servant, who must cost him dear, Lisbeth replied that that was
the<br>
 very last way she should think of marrying.</p>

<p>Lisbeth Fischer had the sort of strangeness in her ideas which
is<br>
 often noticeable in characters that have developed late, in
savages,<br>
 who think much and speak little. Her peasant's wit had acquired
a good<br>
 deal of Parisian asperity from hearing the talk of workshops
and<br>
 mixing with workmen and workwomen. She, whose character had a
marked<br>
 resemblance to that of the Corsicans, worked upon without
fruition by<br>
 the instincts of a strong nature, would have liked to be the<br>
 protectress of a weak man; but, as a result of living in the
capital,<br>
 the capital had altered her superficially. Parisian polish
became rust<br>
 on this coarsely tempered soul. Gifted with a cunning which had
become<br>
 unfathomable, as it always does in those whose celibacy is
genuine,<br>
 with the originality and sharpness with which she clothed her
ideas,<br>
 in any other position she would have been formidable. Full of
spite,<br>
 she was capable of bringing discord into the most united
family.</p>

<p>In early days, when she indulged in certain secret hopes which
she<br>
 confided to none, she took to wearing stays, and dressing in
the<br>
 fashion, and so shone in splendor for a short time, that the
Baron<br>
 thought her marriageable. Lisbeth at that stage was the
piquante<br>
 brunette of old-fashioned novels. Her piercing glance, her olive
skin,<br>
 her reed-like figure, might invite a half-pay major; but she
was<br>
 satisfied, she would say laughing, with her own admiration.</p>

<p>And, indeed, she found her life pleasant enough when she had
freed it<br>
 from practical anxieties, for she dined out every evening
after<br>
 working hard from sunrise. Thus she had only her rent and her
midday<br>
 meal to provide for; she had most of her clothes given her, and
a<br>
 variety of very acceptable stores, such as coffee, sugar, wine,
and so<br>
 forth.</p>

<p>In 1837, after living for twenty-seven years, half maintained
by the<br>
 Hulots and her Uncle Fischer, Cousin Betty, resigned to being
nobody,<br>
 allowed herself to be treated so. She herself refused to appear
at any<br>
 grand dinners, preferring the family party, where she held her
own and<br>
 was spared all slights to her pride.</p>

<p>Wherever she went--at General Hulot's, at Crevel's, at the
house of<br>
 the young Hulots, or at Rivet's (Pons' successor, with whom she
made<br>
 up her quarrel, and who made much of her), and at the Baroness'
table<br>
 --she was treated as one of the family; in fact, she managed to
make<br>
 friends of the servants by making them an occasional small
present,<br>
 and always gossiping with them for a few minutes before going
into the<br>
 drawing-room. This familiarity, by which she uncompromisingly
put<br>
 herself on their level, conciliated their servile good-nature,
which<br>
 is indispensable to a parasite. "She is a good, steady woman,"
was<br>
 everybody's verdict.</p>

<p>Her willingness to oblige, which knew no bounds when it was
not<br>
 demanded of her, was indeed, like her assumed bluntness, a
necessity<br>
 of her position. She had at length understood what her life must
be,<br>
 seeing that she was at everybody's mercy; and needing to
please<br>
 everybody, she would laugh with young people, who liked her for
a sort<br>
 of wheedling flattery which always wins them; guessing and
taking part<br>
 with their fancies, she would make herself their spokeswoman,
and they<br>
 thought her a delightful <i>confidante</i>, since she had no
right to find<br>
 fault with them.</p>

<p>Her absolute secrecy also won her the confidence of their
seniors;<br>
 for, like Ninon, she had certain manly qualities. As a rule,
our<br>
 confidence is given to those below rather than above us. We
employ our<br>
 inferiors rather than our betters in secret transactions, and
they<br>
 thus become the recipients of our inmost thoughts, and look on
at our<br>
 meditations; Richelieu thought he had achieved success when he
was<br>
 admitted to the Council. This penniless woman was supposed to be
so<br>
 dependent on every one about her, that she seemed doomed to
perfect<br>
 silence. She herself called herself the Family Confessional.</p>

<p><br>
 The Baroness only, remembering her ill-usage in childhood by
the<br>
 cousin who, though younger, was stronger than herself, never
wholly<br>
 trusted her. Besides, out of sheer modesty, she would never have
told<br>
 her domestic sorrows to any one but God.</p>

<p>It may here be well to add that the Baron's house preserved
all its<br>
 magnificence in the eyes of Lisbeth Fischer, who was not struck,
as<br>
 the parvenu perfumer had been, with the penury stamped on the
shabby<br>
 chairs, the dirty hangings, and the ripped silk. The furniture
we live<br>
 with is in some sort like our own person; seeing ourselves every
day,<br>
 we end, like the Baron, by thinking ourselves but little
altered, and<br>
 still youthful, when others see that our head is covered
with<br>
 chinchilla, our forehead scarred with circumflex accents, our
stomach<br>
 assuming the rotundity of a pumpkin. So these rooms, always
blazing in<br>
 Betty's eyes with the Bengal fire of Imperial victory, were to
her<br>
 perennially splendid.</p>

<p>As time went on, Lisbeth had contracted some rather strange
old-<br>
 maidish habits. For instance, instead of following the fashions,
she<br>
 expected the fashion to accept her ways and yield to her always
out-<br>
 of-date notions. When the Baroness gave her a pretty new bonnet,
or a<br>
 gown in the fashion of the day, Betty remade it completely at
home,<br>
 and spoilt it by producing a dress of the style of the Empire or
of<br>
 her old Lorraine costume. A thirty-franc bonnet came out a rag,
and<br>
 the gown a disgrace. On this point, Lisbeth was as obstinate as
a<br>
 mule; she would please no one but herself and believed
herself<br>
 charming; whereas this assimilative process--harmonious, no
doubt, in<br>
 so far as that it stamped her for an old maid from head to
foot--made<br>
 her so ridiculous, that, with the best will in the world, no one
could<br>
 admit her on any smart occasion.</p>

<p>This refractory, capricious, and independent spirit, and
the<br>
 inexplicable wild shyness of the woman for whom the Baron had
four<br>
 times found a match--an employe in his office, a retired major,
an<br>
 army contractor, and a half-pay captain--while she had refused
an army<br>
 lacemaker, who had since made his fortune, had won her the name
of the<br>
 Nanny Goat, which the Baron gave her in jest. But this nickname
only<br>
 met the peculiarities that lay on the surface, the
eccentricities<br>
 which each of us displays to his neighbors in social life. This
woman,<br>
 who, if closely studied, would have shown the most savage traits
of<br>
 the peasant class, was still the girl who had clawed her
cousin's<br>
 nose, and who, if she had not been trained to reason, would
perhaps<br>
 have killed her in a fit of jealousy.</p>

<p>It was only her knowledge of the laws and of the world that
enabled<br>
 her to control the swift instinct with which country folk, like
wild<br>
 men, reduce impulse to action. In this alone, perhaps, lies
the<br>
 difference between natural and civilized man. The savage has
only<br>
 impulse; the civilized man has impulses and ideas. And in the
savage<br>
 the brain retains, as we may say, but few impressions, it is
wholly at<br>
 the mercy of the feeling that rushes in upon it; while in
the<br>
 civilized man, ideas sink into the heart and change it; he has
a<br>
 thousand interests and many feelings, where the savage has but
one at<br>
 a time. This is the cause of the transient ascendency of a child
over<br>
 its parents, which ceases as soon as it is satisfied; in the man
who<br>
 is still one with nature, this contrast is constant. Cousin
Betty, a<br>
 savage of Lorraine, somewhat treacherous too, was of this class
of<br>
 natures, which are commoner among the lower orders than is
supposed,<br>
 accounting for the conduct of the populace during
revolutions.</p>

<p>At the time when this <i>Drama</i> opens, if Cousin Betty
would have<br>
 allowed herself to be dressed like other people; if, like the
women of<br>
 Paris, she had been accustomed to wear each fashion in its turn,
she<br>
 would have been presentable and acceptable, but she preserved
the<br>
 stiffness of a stick. Now a woman devoid of all the graces, in
Paris<br>
 simply does not exist. The fine but hard eyes, the severe
features,<br>
 the Calabrian fixity of complexion which made Lisbeth like a
figure by<br>
 Giotto, and of which a true Parisian would have taken advantage,
above<br>
 all, her strange way of dressing, gave her such an
extraordinary<br>
 appearance that she sometimes looked like one of those monkeys
in<br>
 petticoats taken about by little Savoyards. As she was well
known in<br>
 the houses connected by family which she frequented, and
restricted<br>
 her social efforts to that little circle, as she liked her own
home,<br>
 her singularities no longer astonished anybody; and out of doors
they<br>
 were lost in the immense stir of Paris street-life, where only
pretty<br>
 women are ever looked at.</p>

<p>Hortense's laughter was at this moment caused by a victory won
over<br>
 her Cousin Lisbeth's perversity; she had just wrung from her an
avowal<br>
 she had been hoping for these three years past. However
secretive an<br>
 old maid may be, there is one sentiment which will always avail
to<br>
 make her break her fast from words, and that is her vanity. For
the<br>
 last three years, Hortense, having become very inquisitive on
such<br>
 matters, had pestered her cousin with questions, which, however,
bore<br>
 the stamp of perfect innocence. She wanted to know why her
cousin had<br>
 never married. Hortense, who knew of the five offers that she
had<br>
 refused, had constructed her little romance; she supposed that
Lisbeth<br>
 had had a passionate attachment, and a war of banter was the
result.<br>
 Hortense would talk of "We young girls!" when speaking of
herself and<br>
 her cousin.</p>

<p>Cousin Betty had on several occasions answered in the same
tone--"And<br>
 who says I have not a lover?" So Cousin Betty's lover, real
or<br>
 fictitious, became a subject of mild jesting. At last, after two
years<br>
 of this petty warfare, the last time Lisbeth had come to the
house<br>
 Hortense's first question had been:</p>

<p>"And how is your lover?"</p>

<p>"Pretty well, thank you," was the answer. "He is rather
ailing, poor<br>
 young man."</p>

<p>"He has delicate health?" asked the Baroness, laughing.</p>

<p>"I should think so! He is fair. A sooty thing like me can love
none<br>
 but a fair man with a color like the moon."</p>

<p>"But who is he? What does he do?" asked Hortense. "Is he a
prince?"</p>

<p>"A prince of artisans, as I am queen of the bobbin. Is a poor
woman<br>
 like me likely to find a lover in a man with a fine house and
money in<br>
 the funds, or in a duke of the realm, or some Prince Charming
out of a<br>
 fairy tale?"</p>

<p>"Oh, I should so much like to see him!" cried Hortense,
smiling.</p>

<p>"To see what a man can be like who can love the Nanny Goat?"
retorted<br>
 Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"He must be some monster of an old clerk, with a goat's
beard!"<br>
 Hortense said to her mother.</p>

<p>"Well, then, you are quite mistaken, mademoiselle."</p>

<p>"Then you mean that you really have a lover?" Hortense
exclaimed in<br>
 triumph.</p>

<p>"As sure as you have not!" retorted Lisbeth, nettled.</p>

<p>"But if you have a lover, why don't you marry him, Lisbeth?"
said the<br>
 Baroness, shaking her head at her daughter. "We have been
hearing<br>
 rumors about him these three years. You have had time to study
him;<br>
 and if he has been faithful so long, you should not persist in a
delay<br>
 which must be hard upon him. After all, it is a matter of
conscience;<br>
 and if he is young, it is time to take a brevet of dignity."</p>

<p>Cousin Betty had fixed her gaze on Adeline, and seeing that
she was<br>
 jesting, she replied:</p>

<p>"It would be marrying hunger and thirst; he is a workman, I am
a<br>
 workwoman. If we had children, they would be workmen.--No, no;
we love<br>
 each other spiritually; it is less expensive."</p>

<p>"Why do you keep him in hiding?" Hortense asked.</p>

<p>"He wears a round jacket," replied the old maid, laughing.</p>

<p>"You truly love him?" the Baroness inquired.</p>

<p>"I believe you! I love him for his own sake, the dear cherub.
For four<br>
 years his home has been in my heart."</p>

<p>"Well, then, if you love him for himself," said the Baroness
gravely,<br>
 "and if he really exists, you are treating him criminally. You
do not<br>
 know how to love truly."</p>

<p>"We all know that from our birth," said Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"No, there are women who love and yet are selfish, and that is
your<br>
 case."</p>

<p>Cousin Betty's head fell, and her glance would have made any
one<br>
 shiver who had seen it; but her eyes were on her reel of
thread.</p>

<p>"If you would introduce your so-called lover to us, Hector
might find<br>
 him employment, or put him in a position to make money."</p>

<p>"That is out of the question," said Cousin Betty.</p>

<p>"And why?"</p>

<p>"He is a sort of Pole--a refugee----"</p>

<p>"A conspirator?" cried Hortense. "What luck for you!--Has he
had any<br>
 adventures?"</p>

<p>"He has fought for Poland. He was a professor in the school
where the<br>
 students began the rebellion; and as he had been placed there by
the<br>
 Grand Duke Constantine, he has no hope of mercy----"</p>

<p>"A professor of what?"</p>

<p>"Of fine arts."</p>

<p>"And he came to Paris when the rebellion was quelled?"</p>

<p>"In 1833. He came through Germany on foot."</p>

<p>"Poor young man! And how old is he?"</p>

<p>"He was just four-and-twenty when the insurrection broke
out--he is<br>
 twenty-nine now."</p>

<p>"Fifteen years your junior," said the Baroness.</p>

<p>"And what does he live on?" asked Hortense.</p>

<p>"His talent."</p>

<p>"Oh, he gives lessons?"</p>

<p>"No," said Cousin Betty; "he gets them, and hard ones
too!"</p>

<p>"And his Christian name--is it a pretty name?"</p>

<p>"Wenceslas."</p>

<p>"What a wonderful imagination you old maids have!" exclaimed
the<br>
 Baroness. "To hear you talk, Lisbeth, one might really believe
you."</p>

<p>"You see, mamma, he is a Pole, and so accustomed to the knout
that<br>
 Lisbeth reminds him of the joys of his native land."</p>

<p>They all three laughed, and Hortense sang <i>Wenceslas! idole
de mon<br>
 ame</i>! instead of <i>O Mathilde.</i></p>

<p>Then for a few minutes there was a truce.</p>

<p>"These children," said Cousin Betty, looking at Hortense as
she went<br>
 up to her, "fancy that no one but themselves can have
lovers."</p>

<p>"Listen," Hortense replied, finding herself alone with her
cousin, "if<br>
 you prove to me that Wenceslas is not a pure invention, I will
give<br>
 you my yellow cashmere shawl."</p>

<p>"He is a Count."</p>

<p>"Every Pole is a Count!"</p>

<p>"But he is not a Pole; he comes from Liva--Litha----"</p>

<p>"Lithuania?"</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"Livonia?"</p>

<p>"Yes, that's it!"</p>

<p>"But what is his name?"</p>

<p>"I wonder if you are capable of keeping a secret."</p>

<p>"Cousin Betty, I will be as mute!----"</p>

<p>"As a fish?"</p>

<p>"As a fish."</p>

<p>"By your life eternal?"</p>

<p>"By my life eternal!"</p>

<p>"No, by your happiness in this world?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Well, then, his name is Wenceslas Steinbock."</p>

<p>"One of Charles XII.'s Generals was named Steinbock."</p>

<p>"He was his grand-uncle. His own father settled in Livonia
after the<br>
 death of the King of Sweden; but he lost all his fortune during
the<br>
 campaign of 1812, and died, leaving the poor boy at the age of
eight<br>
 without a penny. The Grand Duke Constantine, for the honor of
the name<br>
 of Steinbock, took him under his protection and sent him to
school."</p>

<p>"I will not break my word," Hortense replied; "prove his
existence,<br>
 and you shall have the yellow shawl. The color is most becoming
to<br>
 dark skins."</p>

<p>"And you will keep my secret?"</p>

<p>"And tell you mine."</p>

<p>"Well, then, the next time I come you shall have the
proof."</p>

<p>"But the proof will be the lover," said Hortense.</p>

<p>Cousin Betty, who, since her first arrival in Paris, had been
bitten<br>
 by a mania for shawls, was bewitched by the idea of owning the
yellow<br>
 cashmere given to his wife by the Baron in 1808, and handed down
from<br>
 mother to daughter after the manner of some families in 1830.
The<br>
 shawl had been a good deal worn ten years ago; but the costly
object,<br>
 now always kept in its sandal-wood box, seemed to the old maid
ever<br>
 new, like the drawing-room furniture. So she brought in her
handbag a<br>
 present for the Baroness' birthday, by which she proposed to
prove the<br>
 existence of her romantic lover.</p>

<p><br>
 This present was a silver seal formed of three little figures
back to<br>
 back, wreathed with foliage, and supporting the Globe. They<br>
 represented Faith, Hope, and Charity; their feet rested on
monsters<br>
 rending each other, among them the symbolical serpent. In 1846,
now<br>
 that such immense strides have been made in the art of which
Benvenuto<br>
 Cellini was the master, by Mademoiselle de Fauveau, Wagner,
Jeanest,<br>
 Froment-Meurice, and wood-carvers like Lienard, this little<br>
 masterpiece would amaze nobody; but at that time a girl who
understood<br>
 the silversmith's art stood astonished as she held the seal
which<br>
 Lisbeth put into her hands, saying:</p>

<p>"There! what do you think of that?"</p>

<p>In design, attitude, and drapery the figures were of the
school of<br>
 Raphael; but the execution was in the style of the Florentine
metal<br>
 workers--the school created by Donatello, Brunelleschi,
Ghiberti,<br>
 Benvenuto Cellini, John of Bologna, and others. The French
masters of<br>
 the Renaissance had never invented more strangely twining
monsters<br>
 than these that symbolized the evil passions. The palms, ferns,
reeds,<br>
 and foliage that wreathed the Virtues showed a style, a taste,
a<br>
 handling that might have driven a practised craftsman to
despair; a<br>
 scroll floated above the three figures; and on its surface,
between<br>
 the heads, were a W, a chamois, and the word <i>fecit</i>.</p>

<p>"Who carved this?" asked Hortense.</p>

<p>"Well, just my lover," replied Lisbeth. "There are ten months'
work in<br>
 it; I could earn more at making sword-knots.--He told me
that<br>
 Steinbock means a rock goat, a chamois, in German. And he
intends to<br>
 mark all his work in that way.--Ah, ha! I shall have the
shawl."</p>

<p>"What for?"</p>

<p>"Do you suppose I could buy such a thing, or order it?
Impossible!<br>
 Well, then, it must have been given to me. And who would make me
such<br>
 a present? A lover!"</p>

<p>Hortense, with an artfulness that would have frightened
Lisbeth<br>
 Fischer if she had detected it, took care not to express all
her<br>
 admiration, though she was full of the delight which every soul
that<br>
 is open to a sense of beauty must feel on seeing a faultless
piece of<br>
 work--perfect and unexpected.</p>

<p>"On my word," said she, "it is very pretty."</p>

<p>"Yes, it is pretty," said her cousin; "but I like an
orange-colored<br>
 shawl better.--Well, child, my lover spends his time in doing
such<br>
 work as that. Since he came to Paris he has turned out three or
four<br>
 little trifles in that style, and that is the fruit of four
years'<br>
 study and toil. He has served as apprentice to founders,
metal-<br>
 casters, and goldsmiths.--There he has paid away thousands
and<br>
 hundreds of francs. And my gentleman tells me that in a few
months now<br>
 he will be famous and rich----"</p>

<p>"Then you often see him?"</p>

<p>"Bless me, do you think it is all a fable? I told you truth in
jest."</p>

<p>"And he is in love with you?" asked Hortense eagerly.</p>

<p>"He adores me," replied Lisbeth very seriously. "You see,
child, he<br>
 had never seen any women but the washed out, pale things they
all are<br>
 in the north, and a slender, brown, youthful thing like me
warmed his<br>
 heart.--But, mum; you promised, you know!"</p>

<p>"And he will fare like the five others," said the girl
ironically, as<br>
 she looked at the seal.</p>

<p>"Six others, miss. I left one in Lorraine, who, to this day,
would<br>
 fetch the moon down for me."</p>

<p>"This one does better than that," said Hortense; "he has
brought down<br>
 the sun."</p>

<p>"Where can that be turned into money?" asked her cousin. "It
takes<br>
 wide lands to benefit by the sunshine."</p>

<p>These witticisms, fired in quick retort, and leading to the
sort of<br>
 giddy play that may be imagined, had given cause for the
laughter<br>
 which had added to the Baroness' troubles by making her compare
her<br>
 daughter's future lot with the present, when she was free to
indulge<br>
 the light-heartedness of youth.</p>

<p>"But to give you a gem which cost him six months of work, he
must be<br>
 under some great obligations to you?" said Hortense, in whom
the<br>
 silver seal had suggested very serious reflections.</p>

<p>"Oh, you want to know too much at once!" said her cousin.
"But,<br>
 listen, I will let you into a little plot."</p>

<p>"Is your lover in it too?"</p>

<p>"Oh, ho! you want so much to see him! But, as you may suppose,
an old<br>
 maid like Cousin Betty, who had managed to keep a lover for
five<br>
 years, keeps him well hidden.--Now, just let me alone. You see,
I have<br>
 neither cat nor canary, neither dog nor a parrot, and the old
Nanny<br>
 Goat wanted something to pet and tease--so I treated myself to
a<br>
 Polish Count."</p>

<p>"Has he a moustache?"</p>

<p>"As long as that," said Lisbeth, holding up her shuttle filled
with<br>
 gold thread. She always took her lace-work with her, and worked
till<br>
 dinner was served.</p>

<p>"If you ask too many questions, you will be told nothing," she
went<br>
 on. "You are but two-and-twenty, and you chatter more than I do
though<br>
 I am forty-two--not to say forty-three."</p>

<p>"I am listening; I am a wooden image," said Hortense.</p>

<p>"My lover has finished a bronze group ten inches high,"
Lisbeth went<br>
 on. "It represents Samson slaying a lion, and he has kept it
buried<br>
 till it is so rusty that you might believe it to be as old as
Samson<br>
 himself. This fine piece is shown at the shop of one of the
old<br>
 curiosity sellers on the Place du Carrousel, near my lodgings.
Now,<br>
 your father knows Monsieur Popinot, the Minister of Commerce
and<br>
 Agriculture, and the Comte de Rastignac, and if he would mention
the<br>
 group to them as a fine antique he had seen by chance! It seems
that<br>
 such things take the fancy of your grand folks, who don't care
so much<br>
 about gold lace, and that my man's fortune would be made if one
of<br>
 them would buy or even look at the wretched piece of metal. The
poor<br>
 fellow is sure that it might be mistaken for old work, and that
the<br>
 rubbish is worth a great deal of money. And then, if one of
the<br>
 ministers should purchase the group, he would go to pay his
respects,<br>
 and prove that he was the maker, and be almost carried in
triumph! Oh!<br>
 he believes he has reached the pinnacle; poor young man, and he
is as<br>
 proud as two newly-made Counts."</p>

<p>"Michael Angelo over again; but, for a lover, he has kept his
head on<br>
 his shoulders!" said Hortense. "And how much does he want for
it?"</p>

<p>"Fifteen hundred francs. The dealer will not let it go for
less, since<br>
 he must take his commission."</p>

<p>"Papa is in the King's household just now," said Hortense. "He
sees<br>
 those two ministers every day at the Chamber, and he will do the
thing<br>
 --I undertake that. You will be a rich woman, Madame la Comtesse
de<br>
 Steinbock."</p>

<p>"No, the boy is too lazy; for whole weeks he sits twiddling
with bits<br>
 of red wax, and nothing comes of it. Why, he spends all his days
at<br>
 the Louvre and the Library, looking at prints and sketching
things. He<br>
 is an idler!"</p>

<p>The cousins chatted and giggled; Hortense laughing a forced
laugh, for<br>
 she was invaded by a kind of love which every girl has gone
through--<br>
 the love of the unknown, love in its vaguest form, when every
thought<br>
 is accreted round some form which is suggested by a chance word,
as<br>
 the efflorescence of hoar-frost gathers about a straw that the
wind<br>
 has blown against the window-sill.</p>

<p>For the past ten months she had made a reality of her
cousin's<br>
 imaginary romance, believing, like her mother, that Lisbeth
would<br>
 never marry; and now, within a week, this visionary being had
become<br>
 Comte Wenceslas Steinbock, the dream had a certificate of birth,
the<br>
 wraith had solidified into a young man of thirty. The seal she
held in<br>
 her hand--a sort of Annunciation in which genius shone like
an<br>
 immanent light--had the powers of a talisman. Hortense felt such
a<br>
 surge of happiness, that she almost doubted whether the tale
were<br>
 true; there was a ferment in her blood, and she laughed wildly
to<br>
 deceive her cousin.</p>

<p><br>
 "But I think the drawing-room door is open," said Lisbeth; "let
us go<br>
 and see if Monsieur Crevel is gone."</p>

<p>"Mamma has been very much out of spirits these two days. I
suppose the<br>
 marriage under discussion has come to nothing!"</p>

<p>"Oh, it may come on again. He is--I may tell you so much--a
Councillor<br>
 of the Supreme Court. How would you like to be Madame la
Presidente?<br>
 If Monsieur Crevel has a finger in it, he will tell me about it
if I<br>
 ask him. I shall know by to-morrow if there is any hope."</p>

<p>"Leave the seal with me," said Hortense; "I will not show
it--mamma's<br>
 birthday is not for a month yet; I will give it to you that
morning."</p>

<p>"No, no. Give it back to me; it must have a case."</p>

<p>"But I will let papa see it, that he may know what he is
talking about<br>
 to the ministers, for men in authority must be careful what they
say,"<br>
 urged the girl.</p>

<p>"Well, do not show it to your mother--that is all I ask; for
if she<br>
 believed I had a lover, she would make game of me."</p>

<p>"I promise."</p>

<p>The cousins reached the drawing-room just as the Baroness
turned<br>
 faint. Her daughter's cry of alarm recalled her to herself.
Lisbeth<br>
 went off to fetch some salts. When she came back, she found the
mother<br>
 and daughter in each other's arms, the Baroness soothing her<br>
 daughter's fears, and saying:</p>

<p>"It was nothing; a little nervous attack.--There is your
father," she<br>
 added, recognizing the Baron's way of ringing the bell. "Say not
a<br>
 word to him."</p>

<p>Adeline rose and went to meet her husband, intending to take
him into<br>
 the garden and talk to him till dinner should be served of
the<br>
 difficulties about the proposed match, getting him to come to
some<br>
 decision as to the future, and trying to hint at some warning
advice.</p>

<p>Baron Hector Hulot came in, in a dress at once lawyer-like
and<br>
 Napoleonic, for Imperial men--men who had been attached to the
Emperor<br>
 --were easily distinguishable by their military deportment,
their blue<br>
 coats with gilt buttons, buttoned to the chin, their black silk
stock,<br>
 and an authoritative demeanor acquired from a habit of command
in<br>
 circumstances requiring despotic rapidity. There was nothing of
the<br>
 old man in the Baron, it must be admitted; his sight was still
so<br>
 good, that he could read without spectacles; his handsome oval
face,<br>
 framed in whiskers that were indeed too black, showed a
brilliant<br>
 complexion, ruddy with the veins that characterize a
sanguine<br>
 temperament; and his stomach, kept in order by a belt, had
not<br>
 exceeded the limits of "the majestic," as Brillat-Savarin says.
A fine<br>
 aristocratic air and great affability served to conceal the
libertine<br>
 with whom Crevel had had such high times. He was one of those
men<br>
 whose eyes always light up at the sight of a pretty woman, even
of<br>
 such as merely pass by, never to be seen again.</p>

<p>"Have you been speaking, my dear?" asked Adeline, seeing him
with an<br>
 anxious brow.</p>

<p>"No," replied Hector, "but I am worn out with hearing others
speak for<br>
 two hours without coming to a vote. They carry on a war of
words, in<br>
 which their speeches are like a cavalry charge which has no
effect on<br>
 the enemy. Talk has taken the place of action, which goes very
much<br>
 against the grain with men who are accustomed to marching
orders, as I<br>
 said to the Marshal when I left him. However, I have enough of
being<br>
 bored on the ministers' bench; here I may play.--How do, la
Chevre!--<br>
 Good morning, little kid," and he took his daughter round the
neck,<br>
 kissed her, and made her sit on his knee, resting her head on
his<br>
 shoulder, that he might feel her soft golden hair against his
cheek.</p>

<p>"He is tired and worried," said his wife to herself. "I shall
only<br>
 worry him more.--I will wait.--Are you going to be at home
this<br>
 evening?" she asked him.</p>

<p>"No, children. After dinner I must go out. If it had not been
the day<br>
 when Lisbeth and the children and my brother come to dinner, you
would<br>
 not have seen me at all."</p>

<p>The Baroness took up the newspaper, looked down the list of
theatres,<br>
 and laid it down again when she had seen that Robert <i>le
Diable</i> was<br>
 to be given at the Opera. Josepha, who had left the Italian
Opera six<br>
 months since for the French Opera, was to take the part of
Alice.</p>

<p>This little pantomime did not escape the Baron, who looked
hard at his<br>
 wife. Adeline cast down her eyes and went out into the garden;
her<br>
 husband followed her.</p>

<p>"Come, what is it, Adeline?" said he, putting his arm round
her waist<br>
 and pressing her to his side. "Do not you know that I love you
more<br>
 than----"</p>

<p>"More than Jenny Cadine or Josepha!" said she, boldly
interrupting<br>
 him.</p>

<p>"Who put that into your head?" exclaimed the Baron, releasing
his<br>
 wife, and starting back a step or two.</p>

<p>"I got an anonymous letter, which I burnt at once, in which I
was<br>
 told, my dear, that the reason Hortense's marriage was broken
off was<br>
 the poverty of our circumstances. Your wife, my dear Hector,
would<br>
 never have said a word; she knew of your connection with Jenny
Cadine,<br>
 and did she ever complain?--But as the mother of Hortense, I am
bound<br>
 to speak the truth."</p>

<p>Hulot, after a short silence, which was terrible to his wife,
whose<br>
 heart beat loud enough to be heard, opened his arms, clasped her
to<br>
 his heart, kissed her forehead, and said with the vehemence
of<br>
 enthusiasm:</p>

<p>"Adeline, you are an angel, and I am a wretch----"</p>

<p>"No, no," cried the Baroness, hastily laying her hand upon his
lips to<br>
 hinder him from speaking evil of himself.</p>

<p>"Yes, for I have not at this moment a sou to give to Hortense,
and I<br>
 am most unhappy. But since you open your heart to me, I may pour
into<br>
 it the trouble that is crushing me.--Your Uncle Fischer is
in<br>
 difficulties, and it is I who dragged him there, for he has
accepted<br>
 bills for me to the amount of twenty-five thousand francs! And
all for<br>
 a woman who deceives me, who laughs at me behind my back, and
calls me<br>
 an old dyed Tom. It is frightful! A vice which costs me more
than it<br>
 would to maintain a family!--And I cannot resist!--I would
promise you<br>
 here and now never to see that abominable Jewess again; but if
she<br>
 wrote me two lines, I should go to her, as we marched into fire
under<br>
 the Emperor."</p>

<p>"Do not be so distressed," cried the poor woman in despair,
but<br>
 forgetting her daughter as she saw the tears in her husband's
eyes.<br>
 "There are my diamonds; whatever happens, save my uncle."</p>

<p>"Your diamonds are worth scarcely twenty thousand francs
nowadays.<br>
 That would not be enough for old Fischer, so keep them for
Hortense; I<br>
 will see the Marshal to-morrow."</p>

<p>"My poor dear!" said the Baroness, taking her Hector's hands
and<br>
 kissing them.</p>

<p>This was all the scolding he got. Adeline sacrificed her
jewels, the<br>
 father made them a present to Hortense, she regarded this as a
sublime<br>
 action, and she was helpless.</p>

<p>"He is the master; he could take everything, and he leaves me
my<br>
 diamonds; he is divine!"</p>

<p>This was the current of her thoughts; and indeed the wife had
gained<br>
 more by her sweetness than another perhaps could have achieved
by a<br>
 fit of angry jealousy.</p>

<p>The moralist cannot deny that, as a rule, well-bred though
very wicked<br>
 men are far more attractive and lovable than virtuous men;
having<br>
 crimes to atone for, they crave indulgence by anticipation, by
being<br>
 lenient to the shortcomings of those who judge them, and they
are<br>
 thought most kind. Though there are no doubt some charming
people<br>
 among the virtuous, Virtue considers itself fair enough,
unadorned, to<br>
 be at no pains to please; and then all really virtuous persons,
for<br>
 the hypocrites do not count, have some slight doubts as to
their<br>
 position; they believe that they are cheated in the bargain of
life on<br>
 the whole, and they indulge in acid comments after the fashion
of<br>
 those who think themselves unappreciated.</p>

<p>Hence the Baron, who accused himself of ruining his family,
displayed<br>
 all his charm of wit and his most seductive graces for the
benefit of<br>
 his wife, for his children, and his Cousin Lisbeth.</p>

<p>Then, when his son arrived with Celestine, Crevel's daughter,
who was<br>
 nursing the infant Hulot, he was delightful to his
daughter-in-law,<br>
 loading her with compliments--a treat to which Celestine's
vanity was<br>
 little accustomed for no moneyed bride more commonplace or
more<br>
 utterly insignificant was ever seen. The grandfather took the
baby<br>
 from her, kissed it, declared it was a beauty and a darling; he
spoke<br>
 to it in baby language, prophesied that it would grow to be
taller<br>
 than himself, insinuated compliments for his son's benefit,
and<br>
 restored the child to the Normandy nurse who had charge of
it.<br>
 Celestine, on her part, gave the Baroness a look, as much as to
say,<br>
 "What a delightful man!" and she naturally took her
father-in-law's<br>
 part against her father.</p>

<p>After thus playing the charming father-in-law and the
indulgent<br>
 grandpapa, the Baron took his son into the garden, and laid
before him<br>
 a variety of observations full of good sense as to the attitude
to be<br>
 taken up by the Chamber on a certain ticklish question which had
that<br>
 morning come under discussion. The young lawyer was struck
with<br>
 admiration for the depth of his father's insight, touched by
his<br>
 cordiality, and especially by the deferential tone which seemed
to<br>
 place the two men on a footing of equality.</p>

<p>Monsieur Hulot <i>junior</i> was in every respect the young
Frenchman, as<br>
 he has been moulded by the Revolution of 1830; his mind
infatuated<br>
 with politics, respectful of his own hopes, and concealing them
under<br>
 an affectation of gravity, very envious of successful men,
making<br>
 sententiousness do the duty of witty rejoinders--the gems of
the<br>
 French language--with a high sense of importance, and
mistaking<br>
 arrogance for dignity.</p>

<p>Such men are walking coffins, each containing a Frenchman of
the past;<br>
 now and again the Frenchman wakes up and kicks against his
English-<br>
 made casing; but ambition stifles him, and he submits to be
smothered.<br>
 The coffin is always covered with black cloth.</p>

<p>"Ah, here is my brother!" said Baron Hulot, going to meet the
Count at<br>
 the drawing-room door.</p>

<p>Having greeted the probable successor of the late Marshal
Montcornet,<br>
 he led him forward by the arm with every show of affection
and<br>
 respect.</p>

<p>The older man, a member of the Chamber of Peers, but excused
from<br>
 attendance on account of his deafness, had a handsome head,
chilled by<br>
 age, but with enough gray hair still to be marked in a circle by
the<br>
 pressure of his hat. He was short, square, and shrunken, but
carried<br>
 his hale old age with a free-and-easy air; and as he was full
of<br>
 excessive activity, which had now no purpose, he divided his
time<br>
 between reading and taking exercise. In a drawing-room he
devoted his<br>
 attention to waiting on the wishes of the ladies.</p>

<p>"You are very merry here," said he, seeing that the Baron shed
a<br>
 spirit of animation on the little family gathering. "And yet
Hortense<br>
 is not married," he added, noticing a trace of melancholy on
his<br>
 sister-in-law's countenance.</p>

<p>"That will come all in good time," Lisbeth shouted in his ear
in a<br>
 formidable voice.</p>

<p>"So there you are, you wretched seedling that could never
blossom,"<br>
 said he, laughing.</p>

<p>The hero of Forzheim rather liked Cousin Betty, for there were
certain<br>
 points of resemblance between them. A man of the ranks, without
any<br>
 education, his courage had been the sole mainspring of his
military<br>
 promotion, and sound sense had taken the place of brilliancy. Of
the<br>
 highest honor and clean-handed, he was ending a noble life in
full<br>
 contentment in the centre of his family, which claimed all
his<br>
 affections, and without a suspicion of his brother's still<br>
 undiscovered misconduct. No one enjoyed more than he the
pleasing<br>
 sight of this family party, where there never was the
smallest<br>
 disagreement, for the brothers and sisters were all equally
attached,<br>
 Celestine having been at once accepted as one of the family. But
the<br>
 worthy little Count wondered now and then why Monsieur Crevel
never<br>
 joined the party. "Papa is in the country," Celestine shouted,
and it<br>
 was explained to him that the ex-perfumer was away from
home.</p>

<p>This perfect union of all her family made Madame Hulot say to
herself,<br>
 "This, after all, is the best kind of happiness, and who can
deprive<br>
 us of it?"</p>

<p>The General, on seeing his favorite Adeline the object of
her<br>
 husband's attentions, laughed so much about it that the Baron,
fearing<br>
 to seem ridiculous, transferred his gallantries to his
daughter-in-<br>
 law, who at these family dinners was always the object of his
flattery<br>
 and kind care, for he hoped to win Crevel back through her, and
make<br>
 him forego his resentment.</p>

<p>Any one seeing this domestic scene would have found it hard to
believe<br>
 that the father was at his wits' end, the mother in despair, the
son<br>
 anxious beyond words as to his father's future fate, and the
daughter<br>
 on the point of robbing her cousin of her lover.</p>

<p>At seven o'clock the Baron, seeing his brother, his son, the
Baroness,<br>
 and Hortense all engaged at whist, went off to applaud his
mistress at<br>
 the Opera, taking with him Lisbeth Fischer, who lived in the Rue
du<br>
 Doyenne, and who always made an excuse of the solitude of
that<br>
 deserted quarter to take herself off as soon as dinner was
over.<br>
 Parisians will all admit that the old maid's prudence was
but<br>
 rational.</p>

<p>The existence of the maze of houses under the wing of the old
Louvre<br>
 is one of those protests against obvious good sense which
Frenchmen<br>
 love, that Europe may reassure itself as to the quantum of
brains they<br>
 are known to have, and not be too much alarmed. Perhaps
without<br>
 knowing it, this reveals some profound political idea.</p>

<p>It will surely not be a work of supererogation to describe
this part<br>
 of Paris as it is even now, when we could hardly expect its
survival;<br>
 and our grandsons, who will no doubt see the Louvre finished,
may<br>
 refuse to believe that such a relic of barbarism should have
survived<br>
 for six-and-thirty years in the heart of Paris and in the face
of the<br>
 palace where three dynasties of kings have received, during
those<br>
 thirty-six years, the elite of France and of Europe.</p>

<p>Between the little gate leading to the Bridge of the Carrousel
and the<br>
 Rue du Musee, every one having come to Paris, were it but for a
few<br>
 days, must have seen a dozen of houses with a decayed frontage
where<br>
 the dejected owners have attempted no repairs, the remains of an
old<br>
 block of buildings of which the destruction was begun at the
time when<br>
 Napoleon determined to complete the Louvre. This street, and the
blind<br>
 alley known as the Impasse du Doyenne, are the only passages
into this<br>
 gloomy and forsaken block, inhabited perhaps by ghosts, for
there<br>
 never is anybody to be seen. The pavement is much below the
footway of<br>
 the Rue du Musee, on a level with that of the Rue Froidmanteau.
Thus,<br>
 half sunken by the raising of the soil, these houses are also
wrapped<br>
 in the perpetual shadow cast by the lofty buildings of the
Louvre,<br>
 darkened on that side by the northern blast. Darkness, silence,
an icy<br>
 chill, and the cavernous depth of the soil combine to make
these<br>
 houses a kind of crypt, tombs of the living. As we drive in a
hackney<br>
 cab past this dead-alive spot, and chance to look down the
little Rue<br>
 du Doyenne, a shudder freezes the soul, and we wonder who can
lie<br>
 there, and what things may be done there at night, at an hour
when the<br>
 alley is a cut-throat pit, and the vices of Paris run riot there
under<br>
 the cloak of night. This question, frightful in itself,
becomes<br>
 appalling when we note that these dwelling-houses are shut in on
the<br>
 side towards the Rue de Richelieu by marshy ground, by a sea
of<br>
 tumbled paving-stones between them and the Tuileries, by
little<br>
 garden-plots and suspicious-looking hovels on the side of the
great<br>
 galleries, and by a desert of building-stone and old rubbish on
the<br>
 side towards the old Louvre. Henri III. and his favorites in
search of<br>
 their trunk-hose, and Marguerite's lovers in search of their
heads,<br>
 must dance sarabands by moonlight in this wilderness overlooked
by the<br>
 roof of a chapel still standing there as if to prove that the
Catholic<br>
 religion--so deeply rooted in France--survives all else.</p>

<p><br>
 For forty years now has the Louvre been crying out by every gap
in<br>
 these damaged walls, by every yawning window, "Rid me of these
warts<br>
 upon my face!" This cutthroat lane has no doubt been regarded
as<br>
 useful, and has been thought necessary as symbolizing in the
heart of<br>
 Paris the intimate connection between poverty and the splendor
that is<br>
 characteristic of the queen of cities. And indeed these chill
ruins,<br>
 among which the Legitimist newspaper contracted the disease it
is<br>
 dying of--the abominable hovels of the Rue du Musee, and the
hoarding<br>
 appropriated by the shop stalls that flourish there--will
perhaps live<br>
 longer and more prosperously than three successive
dynasties.</p>

<p>In 1823 the low rents in these already condemned houses had
tempted<br>
 Lisbeth Fischer to settle there, notwithstanding the necessity
imposed<br>
 upon her by the state of the neighborhood to get home before<br>
 nightfall. This necessity, however, was in accordance with the
country<br>
 habits she retained, of rising and going to bed with the sun,
an<br>
 arrangement which saves country folk considerable sums in lights
and<br>
 fuel. She lived in one of the houses which, since the demolition
of<br>
 the famous Hotel Cambaceres, command a view of the square.</p>

<p>Just as Baron Hulot set his wife's cousin down at the door of
this<br>
 house, saying, "Good-night, Cousin," an elegant-looking woman,
young,<br>
 small, slender, pretty, beautifully dressed, and redolent of
some<br>
 delicate perfume, passed between the wall and the carriage to go
in.<br>
 This lady, without any premeditation, glanced up at the Baron
merely<br>
 to see the lodger's cousin, and the libertine at once felt the
swift<br>
 impression which all Parisians know on meeting a pretty
woman,<br>
 realizing, as entomologists have it, their <i>desiderata</i>; so
he waited<br>
 to put on one of his gloves with judicious deliberation before
getting<br>
 into the carriage again, to give himself an excuse for allowing
his<br>
 eye to follow the young woman, whose skirts were pleasingly set
out by<br>
 something else than these odious and delusive crinoline
bustles.</p>

<p>"That," said he to himself, "is a nice little person whose
happiness I<br>
 should like to provide for, as she would certainly secure
mine."</p>

<p>When the unknown fair had gone into the hall at the foot of
the stairs<br>
 going up to the front rooms, she glanced at the gate out of the
corner<br>
 of her eye without precisely looking round, and she could see
the<br>
 Baron riveted to the spot in admiration, consumed by curiosity
and<br>
 desire. This is to every Parisian woman a sort of flower which
she<br>
 smells at with delight, if she meets it on her way. Nay,
certain<br>
 women, though faithful to their duties, pretty, and virtuous,
come<br>
 home much put out if they have failed to cull such a posy in
the<br>
 course of their walk.</p>

<p>The lady ran upstairs, and in a moment a window on the second
floor<br>
 was thrown open, and she appeared at it, but accompanied by a
man<br>
 whose baldhead and somewhat scowling looks announced him as
her<br>
 husband.</p>

<p>"If they aren't sharp and ingenious, the cunning jades!"
thought the<br>
 Baron. "She does that to show me where she lives. But this is
getting<br>
 rather warm, especially for this part of Paris. We must mind
what we<br>
 are at."</p>

<p>As he got into the <i>milord</i>, he looked up, and the lady
and the<br>
 husband hastily vanished, as though the Baron's face had
affected them<br>
 like the mythological head of Medusa.</p>

<p>"It would seem that they know me," thought the Baron. "That
would<br>
 account for everything."</p>

<p>As the carriage went up the Rue du Musee, he leaned forward to
see the<br>
 lady again, and in fact she was again at the window. Ashamed of
being<br>
 caught gazing at the hood under which her admirer was sitting,
the<br>
 unknown started back at once.</p>

<p>"Nanny shall tell me who it is," said the Baron to
himself.</p>

<p>The sight of the Government official had, as will be seen,
made a deep<br>
 impression on this couple.</p>

<p>"Why, it is Baron Hulot, the chief of the department to which
my<br>
 office belongs!" exclaimed the husband as he left the
window.</p>

<p>"Well, Marneffe, the old maid on the third floor at the back
of the<br>
 courtyard, who lives with that young man, is his cousin. Is it
not odd<br>
 that we should never have known that till to-day, and now find
it out<br>
 by chance?"</p>

<p>"Mademoiselle Fischer living with a young man?" repeated the
husband.<br>
 "That is porter's gossip; do not speak so lightly of the cousin
of a<br>
 Councillor of State who can blow hot and cold in the office as
he<br>
 pleases. Now, come to dinner; I have been waiting for you since
four<br>
 o'clock."</p>

<p>Pretty--very pretty--Madame Marneffe, the natural daughter of
Comte<br>
 Montcornet, one of Napoleon's most famous officers, had, on
the<br>
 strength of a marriage portion of twenty thousand francs, found
a<br>
 husband in an inferior official at the War Office. Through
the<br>
 interest of the famous lieutenant-general--made marshal of
France six<br>
 months before his death--this quill-driver had risen to
unhoped-for<br>
 dignity as head-clerk of his office; but just as he was to be
promoted<br>
 to be deputy-chief, the marshal's death had cut off
Marneffe's<br>
 ambitions and his wife's at the root. The very small salary
enjoyed by<br>
 Sieur Marneffe had compelled the couple to economize in the
matter of<br>
 rent; for in his hands Mademoiselle Valerie Fortin's fortune
had<br>
 already melted away--partly in paying his debts, and partly in
the<br>
 purchase of necessaries for furnishing a house, but chiefly
in<br>
 gratifying the requirements of a pretty young wife, accustomed
in her<br>
 mother's house to luxuries she did not choose to dispense with.
The<br>
 situation of the Rue du Doyenne, within easy distance of the
War<br>
 Office, and the gay part of Paris, smiled on Monsieur and
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, and for the last four years they had dwelt under the
same<br>
 roof as Lisbeth Fischer.</p>

<p>Monsieur Jean-Paul-Stanislas Marneffe was one of the class of
employes<br>
 who escape sheer brutishness by the kind of power that comes
of<br>
 depravity. The small, lean creature, with thin hair and a
starved<br>
 beard, an unwholesome pasty face, worn rather than wrinkled,
with red-<br>
 lidded eyes harnessed with spectacles, shuffling in his gait,
and yet<br>
 meaner in his appearance, realized the type of man that any one
would<br>
 conceive of as likely to be placed in the dock for an offence
against<br>
 decency.</p>

<p>The rooms inhabited by this couple had the illusory appearance
of sham<br>
 luxury seen in many Paris homes, and typical of a certain class
of<br>
 household. In the drawing-room, the furniture covered with
shabby<br>
 cotton velvet, the plaster statuettes pretending to be
Florentine<br>
 bronze, the clumsy cast chandelier merely lacquered, with cheap
glass<br>
 saucers, the carpet, whose small cost was accounted for in
advancing<br>
 life by the quality of cotton used in the manufacture, now
visible to<br>
 the naked eye,--everything, down to the curtains, which plainly
showed<br>
 that worsted damask has not three years of prime, proclaimed
poverty<br>
 as loudly as a beggar in rags at a church door.</p>

<p>The dining-room, badly kept by a single servant, had the
sickening<br>
 aspect of a country inn; everything looked greasy and
unclean.</p>

<p>Monsieur's room, very like a schoolboy's, furnished with the
bed and<br>
 fittings remaining from his bachelor days, as shabby and worn as
he<br>
 was, dusted perhaps once a week--that horrible room where
everything<br>
 was in a litter, with old socks hanging over the
horsehair-seated<br>
 chairs, the pattern outlined in dust, was that of a man to whom
home<br>
 is a matter of indifference, who lives out of doors, gambling in
cafes<br>
 or elsewhere.</p>

<p>Madame's room was an exception to the squalid slovenliness
that<br>
 disgraced the living rooms, where the curtains were yellow with
smoke<br>
 and dust, and where the child, evidently left to himself,
littered<br>
 every spot with his toys. Valerie's room and dressing-room
were<br>
 situated in the part of the house which, on one side of the
courtyard,<br>
 joined the front half, looking out on the street, to the wing
forming<br>
 the inner side of the court backing against the adjoining
property.<br>
 Handsomely hung with chintz, furnished with rosewood, and
thickly<br>
 carpeted, they proclaimed themselves as belonging to a pretty
woman--<br>
 and indeed suggested the kept mistress. A clock in the
fashionable<br>
 style stood on the velvet-covered mantelpiece. There was a
nicely<br>
 fitted cabinet, and the Chinese flower-stands were handsomely
filled.<br>
 The bed, the toilet-table, the wardrobe with its mirror, the
little<br>
 sofa, and all the lady's frippery bore the stamp of fashion
or<br>
 caprice. Though everything was quite third-rate as to elegance
or<br>
 quality, and nothing was absolutely newer than three years old,
a<br>
 dandy would have had no fault to find but that the taste of all
this<br>
 luxury was commonplace. Art, and the distinction that comes of
the<br>
 choice of things that taste assimilates, was entirely wanting.
A<br>
 doctor of social science would have detected a lover in two or
three<br>
 specimens of costly trumpery, which could only have come there
through<br>
 that demi-god--always absent, but always present if the lady
is<br>
 married.</p>

<p><br>
 The dinner, four hours behind time, to which the husband, wife,
and<br>
 child sat down, betrayed the financial straits in which the
household<br>
 found itself, for the table is the surest thermometer for
gauging the<br>
 income of a Parisian family. Vegetable soup made with the
water<br>
 haricot beans had been boiled in, a piece of stewed veal and
potatoes<br>
 sodden with water by way of gravy, a dish of haricot beans, and
cheap<br>
 cherries, served and eaten in cracked plates and dishes, with
the<br>
 dull-looking and dull-sounding forks of German silver--was this
a<br>
 banquet worthy of this pretty young woman? The Baron would have
wept<br>
 could he have seen it. The dingy decanters could not disguise
the vile<br>
 hue of wine bought by the pint at the nearest wineshop. The
table-<br>
 napkins had seen a week's use. In short, everything betrayed<br>
 undignified penury, and the equal indifference of the husband
and wife<br>
 to the decencies of home. The most superficial observer on
seeing them<br>
 would have said that these two beings had come to the stage when
the<br>
 necessity of living had prepared them for any kind of dishonor
that<br>
 might bring luck to them. Valerie's first words to her husband
will<br>
 explain the delay that had postponed the dinner by the not<br>
 disinterested devotion of the cook.</p>

<p>"Samanon will only take your bills at fifty per cent, and
insists on a<br>
 lien on your salary as security."</p>

<p>So poverty, still unconfessed in the house of the superior
official,<br>
 and hidden under a stipend of twenty-four thousand francs,<br>
 irrespective of presents, had reached its lowest stage in that
of the<br>
 clerk.</p>

<p>"You have caught on with the chief," said the man, looking at
his<br>
 wife.</p>

<p>"I rather think so," replied she, understanding the full
meaning of<br>
 his slang expression.</p>

<p>"What is to become of us?" Marneffe went on. "The landlord
will be<br>
 down on us to-morrow. And to think of your father dying without
making<br>
 a will! On my honor, those men of the Empire all think
themselves as<br>
 immortal as their Emperor."</p>

<p>"Poor father!" said she. "I was his only child, and he was
very fond<br>
 of me. The Countess probably burned the will. How could he
forget me<br>
 when he used to give us as much as three or four thousand-franc
notes<br>
 at once, from time to time?"</p>

<p>"We owe four quarters' rent, fifteen hundred francs. Is the
furniture<br>
 worth so much? <i>That is the question</i>, as Shakespeare
says."</p>

<p>"Now, good-bye, ducky!" said Valerie, who had only eaten a
few<br>
 mouthfuls of the veal, from which the maid had extracted all the
gravy<br>
 for a brave soldier just home from Algiers. "Great evils demand
heroic<br>
 remedies."</p>

<p>"Valerie, where are you off to?" cried Marneffe, standing
between his<br>
 wife and the door.</p>

<p>"I am going to see the landlord," she replied, arranging her
ringlets<br>
 under her smart bonnet. "You had better try to make friends with
that<br>
 old maid, if she really is your chief's cousin."</p>

<p>The ignorance in which the dwellers under one roof can exist
as to the<br>
 social position of their fellow-lodgers is a permanent fact
which, as<br>
 much as any other, shows what the rush of Paris life is. Still,
it is<br>
 easily conceivable that a clerk who goes early every morning to
his<br>
 office, comes home only to dinner, and spends every evening out,
and a<br>
 woman swallowed up in a round of pleasures, should know nothing
of an<br>
 old maid living on the third floor beyond the courtyard of the
house<br>
 they dwell in, especially when she lives as Mademoiselle Fischer
did.</p>

<p>Up in the morning before any one else, Lisbeth went out to buy
her<br>
 bread, milk, and live charcoal, never speaking to any one, and
she<br>
 went to bed with the sun; she never had a letter or a visitor,
nor<br>
 chatted with her neighbors. Here was one of those anonymous,<br>
 entomological existences such as are to be met with in many
large<br>
 tenements where, at the end of four years, you unexpectedly
learn that<br>
 up on the fourth floor there is an old man lodging who knew
Voltaire,<br>
 Pilatre de Rozier, Beaujon, Marcel, Mole, Sophie Arnould,
Franklin,<br>
 and Robespierre. What Monsieur and Madame Marneffe had just
said<br>
 concerning Lisbeth Fischer they had come to know, in
consequence,<br>
 partly, of the loneliness of the neighborhood, and of the
alliance, to<br>
 which their necessities had led, between them and the
doorkeepers,<br>
 whose goodwill was too important to them not to have been
carefully<br>
 encouraged.</p>

<p>Now, the old maid's pride, silence, and reserve had engendered
in the<br>
 porter and his wife the exaggerated respect and cold civility
which<br>
 betray the unconfessed annoyance of an inferior. Also, the
porter<br>
 thought himself in all essentials the equal of any lodger whose
rent<br>
 was no more than two hundred and fifty francs. Cousin
Betty's<br>
 confidences to Hortense were true; and it is evident that the
porter's<br>
 wife might be very likely to slander Mademoiselle Fischer in
her<br>
 intimate gossip with the Marneffes, while only intending to
tell<br>
 tales.</p>

<p>When Lisbeth had taken her candle from the hands of worthy
Madame<br>
 Olivier the portress, she looked up to see whether the windows
of the<br>
 garret over her own rooms were lighted up. At that hour, even in
July,<br>
 it was so dark within the courtyard that the old maid could not
get to<br>
 bed without a light.</p>

<p>"Oh, you may be quite easy, Monsieur Steinbock is in his room.
He has<br>
 not been out even," said Madame Olivier, with meaning.</p>

<p>Lisbeth made no reply. She was still a peasant, in so far that
she was<br>
 indifferent to the gossip of persons unconnected with her. Just
as a<br>
 peasant sees nothing beyond his village, she cared for
nobody's<br>
 opinion outside the little circle in which she lived. So she
boldly<br>
 went up, not to her own room, but to the garret; and this is
why. At<br>
 dessert she had filled her bag with fruit and sweets for her
lover,<br>
 and she went to give them to him, exactly as an old lady brings
home a<br>
 biscuit for her dog.</p>

<p>She found the hero of Hortense's dreams working by the light
of a<br>
 small lamp, of which the light was intensified by the use of a
bottle<br>
 of water as a lens--a pale young man, seated at a workman's
bench<br>
 covered with a modeler's tools, wax, chisels, rough-hewn stone,
and<br>
 bronze castings; he wore a blouse, and had in his hand a little
group<br>
 in red wax, which he gazed at like a poet absorbed in his
labors.</p>

<p>"Here, Wenceslas, see what I have brought you," said she,
laying her<br>
 handkerchief on a corner of the table; then she carefully took
the<br>
 sweetmeats and fruit out of her bag.</p>

<p>"You are very kind, mademoiselle," replied the exile in
melancholy<br>
 tones.</p>

<p>"It will do you good, poor boy. You get feverish by working so
hard;<br>
 you were not born to such a rough life."</p>

<p>Wenceslas Steinbock looked at her with a bewildered air.</p>

<p>"Eat--come, eat," said she sharply, "instead of looking at me
as you<br>
 do at one of your images when you are satisfied with it."</p>

<p>On being thus smacked with words, the young man seemed less
puzzled,<br>
 for this, indeed, was the female Mentor whose tender moods were
always<br>
 a surprise to him, so much more accustomed was he to be
scolded.</p>

<p>Though Steinbock was nine-and-twenty, like many fair men, he
looked<br>
 five or six years younger; and seeing his youth, though its
freshness<br>
 had faded under the fatigue and stress of life in exile, by the
side<br>
 of that dry, hard face, it seemed as though Nature had blundered
in<br>
 the distribution of sex. He rose and threw himself into a deep
chair<br>
 of Louis XV. pattern, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, as if
to<br>
 rest himself. The old maid took a greengage and offered it to
him.</p>

<p>"Thank you," said he, taking the plum.</p>

<p>"Are you tired?" said she, giving him another.</p>

<p>"I am not tired with work, but tired of life," said he.</p>

<p>"What absurd notions you have!" she exclaimed with some
annoyance.<br>
 "Have you not had a good genius to keep an eye on you?" she
said,<br>
 offering him the sweetmeats, and watching him with pleasure as
he ate<br>
 them all. "You see, I thought of you when dining with my
cousin."</p>

<p>"I know," said he, with a look at Lisbeth that was at once<br>
 affectionate and plaintive, "but for you I should long since
have<br>
 ceased to live. But, my dear lady, artists require
relaxation----"</p>

<p>"Ah! there we come to the point!" cried she, interrupting him,
her<br>
 hands on her hips, and her flashing eyes fixed on him. "You want
to go<br>
 wasting your health in the vile resorts of Paris, like so
many<br>
 artisans, who end by dying in the workhouse. No, no, make a
fortune,<br>
 and then, when you have money in the funds, you may amuse
yourself,<br>
 child; then you will have enough to pay for the doctor and for
your<br>
 pleasure, libertine that you are."</p>

<p>Wenceslas Steinbock, on receiving this broadside, with an<br>
 accompaniment of looks that pierced him like a magnetic flame,
bent<br>
 his head. The most malignant slanderer on seeing this scene
would at<br>
 once have understood that the hints thrown out by the Oliviers
were<br>
 false. Everything in this couple, their tone, manner, and way
of<br>
 looking at each other, proved the purity of their private live.
The<br>
 old maid showed the affection of rough but very genuine
maternal<br>
 feeling; the young man submitted, as a respectful son yields to
the<br>
 tyranny of a mother. The strange alliance seemed to be the
outcome of<br>
 a strong will acting constantly on a weak character, on the
fluid<br>
 nature peculiar to the Slavs, which, while it does not hinder
them<br>
 from showing heroic courage in battle, gives them an amazing<br>
 incoherency of conduct, a moral softness of which physiologists
ought<br>
 to try to detect the causes, since physiologists are to
political life<br>
 what entomologists are to agriculture.</p>

<p>"But if I die before I am rich?" said Wenceslas dolefully.</p>

<p>"Die!" cried she. "Oh, I will not let you die. I have life
enough for<br>
 both, and I would have my blood injected into your veins if<br>
 necessary."</p>

<p>Tears rose to Steinbock's eyes as he heard her vehement and
artless<br>
 speech.</p>

<p>"Do not be unhappy, my little Wenceslas," said Lisbeth with
feeling.<br>
 "My cousin Hortense thought your seal quite pretty, I am sure;
and I<br>
 will manage to sell your bronze group, you will see; you will
have<br>
 paid me off, you will be able to do as you please, you will soon
be<br>
 free. Come, smile a little!"</p>

<p>"I can never repay you, mademoiselle," said the exile.</p>

<p>"And why not?" asked the peasant woman, taking the Livonian's
part<br>
 against herself.</p>

<p>"Because you not only fed me, lodged me, cared for me in my
poverty,<br>
 but you also gave me strength. You have made me what I am; you
have<br>
 often been stern, you have made me very unhappy----"</p>

<p>"I?" said the old maid. "Are you going to pour out all your
nonsense<br>
 once more about poetry and the arts, and to crack your fingers
and<br>
 stretch your arms while you spout about the ideal, and beauty,
and all<br>
 your northern madness?--Beauty is not to compare with solid
pudding--<br>
 and what am I!--You have ideas in your brain? What is the use of
them?<br>
 I too have ideas. What is the good of all the fine things you
may have<br>
 in your soul if you can make no use of them? Those who have
ideas do<br>
 not get so far as those who have none, if they don't know which
way to<br>
 go.</p>

<p>"Instead of thinking over your ideas you must work.--Now, what
have<br>
 you done while I was out?"</p>

<p>"What did your pretty cousin say?"</p>

<p>"Who told you she was pretty?" asked Lisbeth sharply, in a
tone hollow<br>
 with tiger-like jealousy.</p>

<p>"Why, you did."</p>

<p>"That was only to see your face. Do you want to go trotting
after<br>
 petticoats? You who are so fond of women, well, make them in
bronze.<br>
 Let us see a cast of your desires, for you will have to do
without the<br>
 ladies for some little time yet, and certainly without my
cousin, my<br>
 good fellow. She is not game for your bag; that young lady wants
a man<br>
 with sixty thousand francs a year--and has found him!</p>

<p>"Why, your bed is not made!" she exclaimed, looking into the
adjoining<br>
 room. "Poor dear boy, I quite forgot you!"</p>

<p>The sturdy woman pulled off her gloves, her cape and bonnet,
and<br>
 remade the artist's little camp bed as briskly as any housemaid.
This<br>
 mixture of abruptness, of roughness even, with real kindness,
perhaps<br>
 accounts for the ascendency Lisbeth had acquired over the man
whom she<br>
 regarded as her personal property. Is not our attachment to life
based<br>
 on its alternations of good and evil?</p>

<p>If the Livonian had happened to meet Madame Marneffe instead
of<br>
 Lisbeth Fischer, he would have found a protectress whose
complaisance<br>
 must have led him into some boggy or discreditable path, where
he<br>
 would have been lost. He would certainly never have worked, nor
the<br>
 artist have been hatched out. Thus, while he deplored the old
maid's<br>
 grasping avarice, his reason bid him prefer her iron hand to the
life<br>
 of idleness and peril led by many of his fellow-countrymen.</p>

<p>This was the incident that had given rise to the coalition of
female<br>
 energy and masculine feebleness--a contrast in union said not to
be<br>
 uncommon in Poland.</p>

<p>In 1833 Mademoiselle Fischer, who sometimes worked into the
night when<br>
 business was good, at about one o'clock one morning perceived a
strong<br>
 smell of carbonic acid gas, and heard the groans of a dying man.
The<br>
 fumes and the gasping came from a garret over the two rooms
forming<br>
 her dwelling, and she supposed that a young man who had but
lately<br>
 come to lodge in this attic--which had been vacant for three
years--<br>
 was committing suicide. She ran upstairs, broke in the door by a
push<br>
 with her peasant strength, and found the lodger writhing on a
camp-bed<br>
 in the convulsions of death. She extinguished the brazier; the
door<br>
 was open, the air rushed in, and the exile was saved. Then,
when<br>
 Lisbeth had put him to bed like a patient, and he was asleep,
she<br>
 could detect the motives of his suicide in the destitution of
the<br>
 rooms, where there was nothing whatever but a wretched table,
the<br>
 camp-bed, and two chairs.</p>

<p><br>
 On the table lay a document, which she read:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"I am Count Wenceslas Steinbock, born at Prelia, in
Livonia.</p>

<p>"No one is to be accused of my death; my reasons for
killing<br>
 myself are, in the words of Kosciusko, <i>Finis
Polonioe</i>!</p>

<p>"The grand-nephew of a valiant General under Charles XII.
could<br>
 not beg. My weakly constitution forbids my taking military<br>
 service, and I yesterday saw the last of the hundred thalers
which<br>
 I had brought with me from Dresden to Paris. I have left
twenty-<br>
 five francs in the drawer of this table to pay the rent I owe
to<br>
 the landlord.</p>

<p>"My parents being dead, my death will affect nobody. I desire
that<br>
 my countrymen will not blame the French Government. I have
never<br>
 registered myself as a refugee, and I have asked for nothing;
I<br>
 have met none of my fellow-exiles; no one in Paris knows of
my<br>
 existence.</p>

<p>"I am dying in Christian beliefs. May God forgive the last of
the<br>
 Steinbocks!</p>

<p>"WENCESLAS."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 Mademoiselle Fischer, deeply touched by the dying man's
honesty,<br>
 opened the drawer and found the five five-franc pieces to pay
his<br>
 rent.</p>

<p><br>
 "Poor young man!" cried she. "And with no one in the world to
care<br>
 about him!"</p>

<p>She went downstairs to fetch her work, and sat stitching in
the<br>
 garret, watching over the Livonian gentleman.</p>

<p>When he awoke his astonishment may be imagined on finding a
woman<br>
 sitting by his bed; it was like the prolongation of a dream. As
she<br>
 sat there, covering aiguillettes with gold thread, the old maid
had<br>
 resolved to take charge of the poor youth whom she admired as he
lay<br>
 sleeping.</p>

<p>As soon as the young Count was fully awake, Lisbeth talked to
give him<br>
 courage, and questioned him to find out how he might make a
living.<br>
 Wenceslas, after telling his story, added that he owed his
position to<br>
 his acknowledged talent for the fine arts. He had always had
a<br>
 preference for sculpture; the necessary time for study had,
however,<br>
 seemed to him too long for a man without money; and at this
moment he<br>
 was far too weak to do any hard manual labor or undertake an
important<br>
 work in sculpture. All this was Greek to Lisbeth Fischer. She
replied<br>
 to the unhappy man that Paris offered so many openings that any
man<br>
 with will and courage might find a living there. A man of spirit
need<br>
 never perish if he had a certain stock of endurance.</p>

<p>"I am but a poor girl myself, a peasant, and I have managed to
make<br>
 myself independent," said she in conclusion. "If you will work
in<br>
 earnest, I have saved a little money, and I will lend you, month
by<br>
 month, enough to live upon; but to live frugally, and not to
play<br>
 ducks and drakes with or squander in the streets. You can dine
in<br>
 Paris for twenty-five sous a day, and I will get you your
breakfast<br>
 with mine every day. I will furnish your rooms and pay for
such<br>
 teaching as you may think necessary. You shall give me
formal<br>
 acknowledgment for the money I may lay out for you, and when you
are<br>
 rich you shall repay me all. But if you do not work, I shall
not<br>
 regard myself as in any way pledged to you, and I shall leave
you to<br>
 your fate."</p>

<p>"Ah!" cried the poor fellow, still smarting from the
bitterness of his<br>
 first struggle with death, "exiles from every land may well
stretch<br>
 out their hands to France, as the souls in Purgatory do to
Paradise.<br>
 In what other country is such help to be found, and generous
hearts<br>
 even in such a garret as this? You will be everything to me,
my<br>
 beloved benefactress; I am your slave! Be my sweetheart," he
added,<br>
 with one of the caressing gestures familiar to the Poles, for
which<br>
 they are unjustly accused of servility.</p>

<p>"Oh, no; I am too jealous, I should make you unhappy; but I
will<br>
 gladly be a sort of comrade," replied Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Ah, if only you knew how I longed for some fellow-creature,
even a<br>
 tyrant, who would have something to say to me when I was
struggling in<br>
 the vast solitude of Paris!" exclaimed Wenceslas. "I
regretted<br>
 Siberia, whither I should be sent by the Emperor if I went
home.--Be<br>
 my Providence!--I will work; I will be a better man than I am,
though<br>
 I am not such a bad fellow!"</p>

<p>"Will you do whatever I bid you?" she asked.</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Well, then, I will adopt you as my child," said she lightly.
"Here I<br>
 am with a son risen from the grave. Come! we will begin at once.
I<br>
 will go out and get what I want; you can dress, and come down
to<br>
 breakfast with me when I knock on the ceiling with the
broomstick."</p>

<p>That day, Mademoiselle Fischer made some inquiries, at the
houses to<br>
 which she carried her work home, as to the business of a
sculptor. By<br>
 dint of many questions she ended by hearing of the studio kept
by<br>
 Florent and Chanor, a house that made a special business of
casting<br>
 and finishing decorative bronzes and handsome silver plate.
Thither<br>
 she went with Steinbock, recommending him as an apprentice
in<br>
 sculpture, an idea that was regarded as too eccentric. Their
business<br>
 was to copy the works of the greatest artists, but they did not
teach<br>
 the craft. The old maid's persistent obstinacy so far succeeded
that<br>
 Steinbock was taken on to design ornament. He very soon learned
to<br>
 model ornament, and invented novelties; he had a gift for
it.</p>

<p>Five months after he was out of his apprenticeship as a
finisher, he<br>
 made acquaintance with Stidmann, the famous head of Florent's
studios.<br>
 Within twenty months Wenceslas was ahead of his master; but in
thirty<br>
 months the old maid's savings of sixteen years had melted
entirely.<br>
 Two thousand five hundred francs in gold!--a sum with which she
had<br>
 intended to purchase an annuity; and what was there to show for
it? A<br>
 Pole's receipt! And at this moment Lisbeth was working as hard
as in<br>
 her young days to supply the needs of her Livonian.</p>

<p>When she found herself the possessor of a piece of paper
instead of<br>
 her gold louis, she lost her head, and went to consult Monsieur
Rivet,<br>
 who for fifteen years had been his clever head-worker's friend
and<br>
 counselor. On hearing her story, Monsieur and Madame Rivet
scolded<br>
 Lisbeth, told her she was crazy, abused all refugees whose plots
for<br>
 reconstructing their nation compromised the prosperity of the
country<br>
 and the maintenance of peace; and they urged Lisbeth to find
what in<br>
 trade is called security.</p>

<p>"The only hold you have over this fellow is on his liberty,"
observed<br>
 Monsieur Rivet.</p>

<p>Monsieur Achille Rivet was assessor at the Tribunal of
Commerce.</p>

<p>"Imprisonment is no joke for a foreigner," said he. "A
Frenchman<br>
 remains five years in prison and comes out, free of his debts to
be<br>
 sure, for he is thenceforth bound only by his conscience, and
that<br>
 never troubles him; but a foreigner never comes out.--Give me
your<br>
 promissory note; my bookkeeper will take it up; he will get
it<br>
 protested; you will both be prosecuted and both be condemned
to<br>
 imprisonment in default of payment; then, when everything is in
due<br>
 form, you must sign a declaration. By doing this your interest
will be<br>
 accumulating, and you will have a pistol always primed to fire
at your<br>
 Pole!"</p>

<p>The old maid allowed these legal steps to be taken, telling
her<br>
 protege not to be uneasy, as the proceedings were merely to
afford a<br>
 guarantee to a money-lender who agreed to advance them certain
sums.<br>
 This subterfuge was due to the inventive genius of Monsieur
Rivet. The<br>
 guileless artist, blindly trusting to his benefactress, lighted
his<br>
 pipe with the stamped paper, for he smoked as all men do who
have<br>
 sorrows or energies that need soothing.</p>

<p>One fine day Monsieur Rivet showed Mademoiselle Fischer a
schedule,<br>
 and said to her:</p>

<p>"Here you have Wenceslas Steinbock bound hand and foot, and
so<br>
 effectually, that within twenty-four hours you can have him snug
in<br>
 Clichy for the rest of his days."</p>

<p>This worthy and honest judge at the Chamber of Commerce
experienced<br>
 that day the satisfaction that must come of having done a
malignant<br>
 good action. Beneficence has so many aspects in Paris that
this<br>
 contradictory expression really represents one of them. The
Livonian<br>
 being fairly entangled in the toils of commercial procedure, the
point<br>
 was to obtain payment; for the illustrious tradesman looked
on<br>
 Wenceslas as a swindler. Feeling, sincerity, poetry, were in his
eyes<br>
 mere folly in business matters.</p>

<p>So Rivet went off to see, in behalf of that poor Mademoiselle
Fischer,<br>
 who, as he said, had been "done" by the Pole, the rich
manufacturers<br>
 for whom Steinbock had worked. It happened that Stidmann--who,
with<br>
 the help of these distinguished masters of the goldsmiths' art,
was<br>
 raising French work to the perfection it has now reached,
allowing it<br>
 to hold its own against Florence and the Renaissance--Stidmann
was in<br>
 Chanor's private room when the army lace manufacturer called to
make<br>
 inquiries as to "One Steinbock, a Polish refugee."</p>

<p>"Whom do you call 'One Steinbock'? Do you mean a young
Livonian who<br>
 was a pupil of mine?" cried Stidmann ironically. "I may tell
you,<br>
 monsieur, that he is a very great artist. It is said of me that
I<br>
 believe myself to be the Devil. Well, that poor fellow does not
know<br>
 that he is capable of becoming a god."</p>

<p>"Indeed," said Rivet, well pleased. And then he added, "Though
you<br>
 take a rather cavalier tone with a man who has the honor to be
an<br>
 Assessor on the Tribunal of Commerce of the Department of the
Seine."</p>

<p>"Your pardon, Consul!" said Stidmann, with a military
salute.</p>

<p>"I am delighted," the Assessor went on, "to hear what you say.
The man<br>
 may make money then?"</p>

<p>"Certainly," said Chanor; "but he must work. He would have a
tidy sum<br>
 by now if he had stayed with us. What is to be done? Artists
have a<br>
 horror of not being free."</p>

<p>"They have a proper sense of their value and dignity,"
replied<br>
 Stidmann. "I do not blame Wenceslas for walking alone, trying to
make<br>
 a name, and to become a great man; he had a right to do so! But
he was<br>
 a great loss to me when he left."</p>

<p>"That, you see," exclaimed Rivet, "is what all young students
aim at<br>
 as soon as they are hatched out of the school-egg. Begin by
saving<br>
 money, I say, and seek glory afterwards."</p>

<p>"It spoils your touch to be picking up coin," said Stidmann.
"It is<br>
 Glory's business to bring us wealth."</p>

<p>"And, after all," said Chanor to Rivet, "you cannot tether
them."</p>

<p>"They would eat the halter," replied Stidmann.</p>

<p>"All these gentlemen have as much caprice as talent," said
Chanor,<br>
 looking at Stidmann. "They spend no end of money; they keep
their<br>
 girls, they throw coin out of window, and then they have no time
to<br>
 work. They neglect their orders; we have to employ workmen who
are<br>
 very inferior, but who grow rich; and then they complain of the
hard<br>
 times, while, if they were but steady, they might have piles of
gold."</p>

<p>"You old Lumignon," said Stidmann, "you remind me of the
publisher<br>
 before the Revolution who said--'If only I could keep
Montesquieu,<br>
 Voltaire, and Rousseau very poor in my backshed, and lock up
their<br>
 breeches in a cupboard, what a lot of nice little books they
would<br>
 write to make my fortune.'--If works of art could be hammered
out like<br>
 nails, workmen would make them.--Give me a thousand francs, and
don't<br>
 talk nonsense."</p>

<p>Worthy Monsieur Rivet went home, delighted for poor
Mademoiselle<br>
 Fischer, who dined with him every Monday, and whom he found
waiting<br>
 for him.</p>

<p>"If you can only make him work," said he, "you will have more
luck<br>
 than wisdom; you will be repaid, interest, capital, and costs.
This<br>
 Pole has talent, he can make a living; but lock up his trousers
and<br>
 his shoes, do not let him go to the <i>Chaumiere</i> or the
parish of<br>
 Notre-Dame de Lorette, keep him in leading-strings. If you do
not take<br>
 such precautions, your artist will take to loafing, and if you
only<br>
 knew what these artists mean by loafing! Shocking! Why, I have
just<br>
 heard that they will spend a thousand-franc note in a day!"</p>

<p>This episode had a fatal influence on the home-life of
Wenceslas and<br>
 Lisbeth. The benefactress flavored the exile's bread with the
wormwood<br>
 of reproof, now that she saw her money in danger, and often
believed<br>
 it to be lost. From a kind mother she became a stepmother; she
took<br>
 the poor boy to task, she nagged him, scolded him for working
too<br>
 slowly, and blamed him for having chosen so difficult a
profession.<br>
 She could not believe that those models in red wax--little
figures and<br>
 sketches for ornamental work--could be of any value. Before
long,<br>
 vexed with herself for her severity, she would try to efface the
tears<br>
 by her care and attention.</p>

<p>Then the poor young man, after groaning to think that he was
dependent<br>
 on this shrew and under the thumb of a peasant of the Vosges,
was<br>
 bewitched by her coaxing ways and by a maternal affection
that<br>
 attached itself solely to the physical and material side of
life. He<br>
 was like a woman who forgives a week of ill-usage for the sake
of a<br>
 kiss and a brief reconciliation.</p>

<p>Thus Mademoiselle Fischer obtained complete power over his
mind. The<br>
 love of dominion that lay as a germ in the old maid's heart
developed<br>
 rapidly. She could now satisfy her pride and her craving for
action;<br>
 had she not a creature belonging to her, to be schooled,
scolded,<br>
 flattered, and made happy, without any fear of a rival? Thus the
good<br>
 and bad sides of her nature alike found play. If she
sometimes<br>
 victimized the poor artist, she had, on the other hand,
delicate<br>
 impulses like the grace of wild flowers; it was a joy to her
to<br>
 provide for all his wants; she would have given her life for
him, and<br>
 Wenceslas knew it. Like every noble soul, the poor fellow forgot
the<br>
 bad points, the defects of the woman who had told him the story
of her<br>
 life as an excuse for her rough ways, and he remembered only
the<br>
 benefits she had done him.</p>

<p>One day, exasperated with Wenceslas for having gone out
walking<br>
 instead of sitting at work, she made a great scene.</p>

<p>"You belong to me," said she. "If you were an honest man, you
would<br>
 try to repay me the money you owe as soon as possible."</p>

<p>The gentleman, in whose veins the blood of the Steinbocks was
fired,<br>
 turned pale.</p>

<p>"Bless me," she went on, "we soon shall have nothing to live
on but<br>
 the thirty sous I earn--a poor work-woman!"</p>

<p>The two penniless creatures, worked up by their own war of
words, grew<br>
 vehement; and for the first time the unhappy artist reproached
his<br>
 benefactress for having rescued him from death only to make him
lead<br>
 the life of a galley slave, worse than the bottomless void,
where at<br>
 least, said he, he would have found rest. And he talked of
flight.</p>

<p>"Flight!" cried Lisbeth. "Ah, Monsieur Rivet was right."</p>

<p>And she clearly explained to the Pole that within twenty-four
hours he<br>
 might be clapped into prison for the rest of his days. It was
a<br>
 crushing blow. Steinbock sank into deep melancholy and total
silence.</p>

<p>In the course of the following night, Lisbeth hearing overhead
some<br>
 preparations for suicide, went up to her pensioner's room, and
gave<br>
 him the schedule and a formal release.</p>

<p>"Here, dear child, forgive me," she said with tears in her
eyes. "Be<br>
 happy; leave me! I am too cruel to you; only tell me that you
will<br>
 sometimes remember the poor girl who has enabled you to make a
living.<br>
 --What can I say? You are the cause of my ill-humor. I might
die;<br>
 where would you be without me? That is the reason of my
being<br>
 impatient to see you do some salable work. I do not want my
money back<br>
 for myself, I assure you! I am only frightened at your idleness,
which<br>
 you call meditation; at your ideas, which take up so many hours
when<br>
 you sit gazing at the sky; I want you to get into habits of
industry."</p>

<p>All this was said with an emphasis, a look, and tears that
moved the<br>
 high-minded artist; he clasped his benefactress to his heart
and<br>
 kissed her forehead.</p>

<p>"Keep these pieces," said he with a sort of cheerfulness. "Why
should<br>
 you send me to Clichy? Am I not a prisoner here out of
gratitude?"</p>

<p>This episode of their secret domestic life had occurred six
months<br>
 previously, and had led to Steinbock's producing three finished
works:<br>
 the seal in Hortense's possession, the group he had placed with
the<br>
 curiosity dealer, and a beautiful clock to which he was putting
the<br>
 last touches, screwing in the last rivets.</p>

<p>This clock represented the twelve Hours, charmingly
personified by<br>
 twelve female figures whirling round in so mad and swift a dance
that<br>
 three little Loves perched on a pile of fruit and flowers could
not<br>
 stop one of them; only the torn skirts of Midnight remained in
the<br>
 hand of the most daring cherub. The group stood on an
admirably<br>
 treated base, ornamented with grotesque beasts. The hours were
told by<br>
 a monstrous mouth that opened to yawn, and each Hour bore
some<br>
 ingeniously appropriate symbol characteristic of the various<br>
 occupations of the day.</p>

<p>It is now easy to understand the extraordinary attachment
of<br>
 Mademoiselle Fischer for her Livonian; she wanted him to be
happy, and<br>
 she saw him pining, fading away in his attic. The causes of
this<br>
 wretched state of affairs may be easily imagined. The peasant
woman<br>
 watched this son of the North with the affection of a mother,
with the<br>
 jealousy of a wife, and the spirit of a dragon; hence she
managed to<br>
 put every kind of folly or dissipation out of his power by
leaving him<br>
 destitute of money. She longed to keep her victim and companion
for<br>
 herself alone, well conducted perforce, and she had no
conception of<br>
 the cruelty of this senseless wish, since she, for her own part,
was<br>
 accustomed to every privation. She loved Steinbock well enough
not to<br>
 marry him, and too much to give him up to any other woman; she
could<br>
 not resign herself to be no more than a mother to him, though
she saw<br>
 that she was mad to think of playing the other part.</p>

<p>These contradictions, this ferocious jealousy, and the joy of
having a<br>
 man to herself, all agitated her old maid's heart beyond
measure.<br>
 Really in love as she had been for four years, she cherished
the<br>
 foolish hope of prolonging this impossible and aimless way of
life in<br>
 which her persistence would only be the ruin of the man she
thought of<br>
 as her child. This contest between her instincts and her reason
made<br>
 her unjust and tyrannical. She wreaked on the young man her
vengeance<br>
 for her own lot in being neither young, rich, nor handsome;
then,<br>
 after each fit of rage, recognizing herself wrong, she stooped
to<br>
 unlimited humility, infinite tenderness. She never could
sacrifice to<br>
 her idol till she had asserted her power by blows of the axe. In
fact,<br>
 it was the converse of Shakespeare's <i>Tempest</i>--Caliban
ruling Ariel<br>
 and Prospero.</p>

<p>As to the poor youth himself, high-minded, meditative, and
inclined to<br>
 be lazy, the desert that his protectress made in his soul might
be<br>
 seen in his eyes, as in those of a caged lion. The penal
servitude<br>
 forced on him by Lisbeth did not fulfil the cravings of his
heart. His<br>
 weariness became a physical malady, and he was dying without
daring to<br>
 ask, or knowing where to procure, the price of some little
necessary<br>
 dissipation. On some days of special energy, when a feeling of
utter<br>
 ill-luck added to his exasperation, he would look at Lisbeth as
a<br>
 thirsty traveler on a sandy shore must look at the bitter
sea-water.</p>

<p>These harsh fruits of indigence, and this isolation in the
midst of<br>
 Paris, Lisbeth relished with delight. And besides, she foresaw
that<br>
 the first passion would rob her of her slave. Sometimes she
even<br>
 blamed herself because her own tyranny and reproaches had
compelled<br>
 the poetic youth to become so great an artist of delicate work,
and<br>
 she had thus given him the means of casting her off.</p>

<p>On the day after, these three lives, so differently but so
utterly<br>
 wretched--that of a mother in despair, that of the Marneffe
household,<br>
 and that of the unhappy exile--were all to be influenced by
Hortense's<br>
 guileless passion, and by the strange outcome of the Baron's
luckless<br>
 passion for Josepha.</p>

<p>Just as Hulot was going into the opera-house, he was stopped
by the<br>
 darkened appearance of the building and of the Rue le Peletier,
where<br>
 there were no gendarmes, no lights, no theatre-servants, no
barrier to<br>
 regulate the crowd. He looked up at the announcement-board, and
beheld<br>
 a strip of white paper, on which was printed the solemn
notice:</p>

<p>"CLOSED ON ACCOUNT OF ILLNESS."</p>

<p>He rushed off to Josepha's lodgings in the Rue Chauchat; for,
like all<br>
 the singers, she lived close at hand.</p>

<p>"Whom do you want, sir?" asked the porter, to the Baron's
great<br>
 astonishment.</p>

<p>"Have you forgotten me?" said Hulot, much puzzled.</p>

<p>"On the contrary, sir, it is because I have the honor to
remember you<br>
 that I ask you, Where are you going?"</p>

<p>A mortal chill fell upon the Baron.</p>

<p>"What has happened?" he asked.</p>

<p><br>
 "If you go up to Mademoiselle Mirah's rooms, Monsieur le Baron,
you<br>
 will find Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout there--and Monsieur
Bixiou,<br>
 Monsieur Leon de Lora, Monsieur Lousteau, Monsieur de
Vernisset,<br>
 Monsieur Stidmann; and ladies smelling of patchouli--holding
a<br>
 housewarming."</p>

<p>"Then, where--where is----?"</p>

<p>"Mademoiselle Mirah?--I don't know that I ought to tell
you."</p>

<p>The Baron slipped two five-franc pieces into the porter's
hand.</p>

<p>"Well, she is now in the Rue de la Ville l'Eveque, in a fine
house,<br>
 given to her, they say, by the Duc d'Herouville," replied the
man in a<br>
 whisper.</p>

<p>Having ascertained the number of the house, Monsieur Hulot
called a<br>
 <i>milord</i> and drove to one of those pretty modern houses
with double<br>
 doors, where everything, from the gaslight at the entrance,
proclaims<br>
 luxury.</p>

<p>The Baron, in his blue cloth coat, white neckcloth, nankeen
trousers,<br>
 patent leather boots, and stiffly starched shirt-frill, was
supposed<br>
 to be a guest, though a late arrival, by the janitor of this new
Eden.<br>
 His alacrity of manner and quick step justified this
opinion.</p>

<p>The porter rang a bell, and a footman appeared in the hall.
This man,<br>
 as new as the house, admitted the visitor, who said to him in
an<br>
 imperious tone, and with a lordly gesture:</p>

<p>"Take in this card to Mademoiselle Josepha."</p>

<p>The victim mechanically looked round the room in which he
found<br>
 himself--an anteroom full of choice flowers and of furniture
that must<br>
 have cost twenty thousand francs. The servant, on his return,
begged<br>
 monsieur to wait in the drawing-room till the company came to
their<br>
 coffee.</p>

<p>Though the Baron had been familiar with Imperial luxury, which
was<br>
 undoubtedly prodigious, while its productions, though not
durable in<br>
 kind, had nevertheless cost enormous sums, he stood dazzled,<br>
 dumfounded, in this drawing-room with three windows looking out
on a<br>
 garden like fairyland, one of those gardens that are created in
a<br>
 month with a made soil and transplanted shrubs, while the grass
seems<br>
 as if it must be made to grow by some chemical process. He
admired not<br>
 only the decoration, the gilding, the carving, in the most
expensive<br>
 Pompadour style, as it is called, and the magnificent brocades,
all of<br>
 which any enriched tradesman could have procured for money; but
he<br>
 also noted such treasures as only princes can select and find,
can pay<br>
 for and give away; two pictures by Greuze, two by Watteau, two
heads<br>
 by Vandyck, two landscapes by Ruysdael, and two by le Guaspre,
a<br>
 Rembrandt, a Holbein, a Murillo, and a Titian, two paintings,
by<br>
 Teniers, and a pair by Metzu, a Van Huysum, and an Abraham
Mignon--in<br>
 short, two hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures superbly
framed.<br>
 The gilding was worth almost as much as the paintings.</p>

<p>"Ah, ha! Now you understand, my good man?" said Josepha.</p>

<p>She had stolen in on tiptoe through a noiseless door, over
Persian<br>
 carpets, and came upon her adorer, standing lost in
amazement--in the<br>
 stupid amazement when a man's ears tingle so loudly that he
hears<br>
 nothing but that fatal knell.</p>

<p>The words "my good man," spoken to an official of such
high<br>
 importance, so perfectly exemplified the audacity with which
these<br>
 creatures pour contempt on the loftiest, that the Baron was
nailed to<br>
 the spot. Josepha, in white and yellow, was so beautifully
dressed for<br>
 the banquet, that amid all this lavish magnificence she still
shone<br>
 like a rare jewel.</p>

<p>"Isn't this really fine?" said she. "The Duke has spent all
the money<br>
 on it that he got out of floating a company, of which the shares
all<br>
 sold at a premium. He is no fool, is my little Duke. There is
nothing<br>
 like a man who has been a grandee in his time for turning coals
into<br>
 gold. Just before dinner the notary brought me the title-deeds
to sign<br>
 and the bills receipted!--They are all a first-class set in
there--<br>
 d'Esgrignon, Rastignac, Maxime, Lenoncourt, Verneuil,
Laginski,<br>
 Rochefide, la Palferine, and from among the bankers Nucingen and
du<br>
 Tillet, with Antonia, Malaga, Carabine, and la Schontz; and they
all<br>
 feel for you deeply.--Yes, old boy, and they hope you will join
them,<br>
 but on condition that you forthwith drink up to two bottles full
of<br>
 Hungarian wine, Champagne, or Cape, just to bring you up to
their<br>
 mark.--My dear fellow, we are all so much <i>on</i> here, that
it was<br>
 necessary to close the Opera. The manager is as drunk as a
cornet-a-<br>
 piston; he is hiccuping already."</p>

<p>"Oh, Josepha!----" cried the Baron.</p>

<p>"Now, can anything be more absurd than explanations?" she
broke in<br>
 with a smile. "Look here; can you stand six hundred thousand
francs<br>
 which this house and furniture cost? Can you give me a bond to
the<br>
 tune of thirty thousand francs a year, which is what the Duke
has just<br>
 given me in a packet of common sugared almonds from the
grocer's?--a<br>
 pretty notion that----"</p>

<p>"What an atrocity!" cried Hulot, who in his fury would have
given his<br>
 wife's diamonds to stand in the Duc d'Herouville's shoes for
twenty-<br>
 four hours.</p>

<p>"Atrocity is my trade," said she. "So that is how you take it?
Well,<br>
 why don't you float a company? Goodness me! my poor dyed Tom,
you<br>
 ought to be grateful to me; I have thrown you over just when you
would<br>
 have spent on me your widow's fortune, your daughter's
portion.--What,<br>
 tears! The Empire is a thing of the past--I hail the coming
Empire!"</p>

<p>She struck a tragic attitude, and exclaimed:</p>

<p>"They call you Hulot! Nay, I know you not--"</p>

<p>And she went into the other room.</p>

<p>Through the door, left ajar, there came, like a
lightning-flash, a<br>
 streak of light with an accompaniment of the crescendo of the
orgy and<br>
 the fragrance of a banquet of the choicest description.</p>

<p>The singer peeped through the partly open door, and seeing
Hulot<br>
 transfixed as if he had been a bronze image, she came one step
forward<br>
 into the room.</p>

<p>"Monsieur," said she, "I have handed over the rubbish in the
Rue<br>
 Chauchat to Bixiou's little Heloise Brisetout. If you wish to
claim<br>
 your cotton nightcap, your bootjack, your belt, and your wax
dye, I<br>
 have stipulated for their return."</p>

<p>This insolent banter made the Baron leave the room as
precipitately as<br>
 Lot departed from Gomorrah, but he did not look back like Mrs.
Lot.</p>

<p>Hulot went home, striding along in a fury, and talking to
himself; he<br>
 found his family still playing the game of whist at two sous a
point,<br>
 at which he left them. On seeing her husband return, poor
Adeline<br>
 imagined something dreadful, some dishonor; she gave her cards
to<br>
 Hortense, and led Hector away into the very room where, only
five<br>
 hours since, Crevel had foretold her the utmost disgrace of
poverty.</p>

<p>"What is the matter?" she said, terrified.</p>

<p>"Oh, forgive me--but let me tell you all these horrors." And
for ten<br>
 minutes he poured out his wrath.</p>

<p>"But, my dear," said the unhappy woman, with heroic courage,
"these<br>
 creatures do not know what love means--such pure and devoted
love as<br>
 you deserve. How could you, so clear-sighted as you are, dream
of<br>
 competing with millions?"</p>

<p>"Dearest Adeline!" cried the Baron, clasping her to his
heart.</p>

<p>The Baroness' words had shed balm on the bleeding wounds to
his<br>
 vanity.</p>

<p>"To be sure, take away the Duc d'Herouville's fortune, and she
could<br>
 not hesitate between us!" said the Baron.</p>

<p>"My dear," said Adeline with a final effort, "if you
positively must<br>
 have mistresses, why do you not seek them, like Crevel, among
women<br>
 who are less extravagant, and of a class that can for a time
be<br>
 content with little? We should all gain by that
arrangement.--I<br>
 understand your need--but I do not understand that
vanity----"</p>

<p>"Oh, what a kind and perfect wife you are!" cried he. "I am an
old<br>
 lunatic, I do not deserve to have such a wife!"</p>

<p>"I am simply the Josephine of my Napoleon," she replied, with
a touch<br>
 of melancholy.</p>

<p>"Josephine was not to compare with you!" said he. "Come; I
will play a<br>
 game of whist with my brother and the children. I must try my
hand at<br>
 the business of a family man; I must get Hortense a husband, and
bury<br>
 the libertine."</p>

<p>His frankness so greatly touched poor Adeline, that she
said:</p>

<p>"The creature has no taste to prefer any man in the world to
my<br>
 Hector. Oh, I would not give you up for all the gold on earth.
How can<br>
 any woman throw you over who is so happy as to be loved by
you?"</p>

<p>The look with which the Baron rewarded his wife's fanaticism
confirmed<br>
 her in her opinion that gentleness and docility were a
woman's<br>
 strongest weapons.</p>

<p>But in this she was mistaken. The noblest sentiments, carried
to an<br>
 excess, can produce mischief as great as do the worst vices.
Bonaparte<br>
 was made Emperor for having fired on the people, at a stone's
throw<br>
 from the spot where Louis XVI. lost his throne and his head
because he<br>
 would not allow a certain Monsieur Sauce to be hurt.</p>

<p>On the following morning, Hortense, who had slept with the
seal under<br>
 her pillow, so as to have it close to her all night, dressed
very<br>
 early, and sent to beg her father to join her in the garden as
soon as<br>
 he should be down.</p>

<p>By about half-past nine, the father, acceding to his
daughter's<br>
 petition, gave her his arm for a walk, and they went along the
quays<br>
 by the Pont Royal to the Place du Carrousel.</p>

<p>"Let us look into the shop windows, papa," said Hortense, as
they went<br>
 through the little gate to cross the wide square.</p>

<p>"What--here?" said her father, laughing at her.</p>

<p>"We are supposed to have come to see the pictures, and over
there"--<br>
 and she pointed to the stalls in front of the houses at a right
angle<br>
 to the Rue du Doyenne--"look! there are dealers in curiosities
and<br>
 pictures----"</p>

<p>"Your cousin lives there."</p>

<p>"I know it, but she must not see us."</p>

<p>"And what do you want to do?" said the Baron, who, finding
himself<br>
 within thirty yards of Madame Marneffe's windows, suddenly
remembered<br>
 her.</p>

<p>Hortense had dragged her father in front of one of the shops
forming<br>
 the angle of a block of houses built along the front of the
Old<br>
 Louvre, and facing the Hotel de Nantes. She went into this shop;
her<br>
 father stood outside, absorbed in gazing at the windows of the
pretty<br>
 little lady, who, the evening before, had left her image stamped
on<br>
 the old beau's heart, as if to alleviate the wound he was so
soon to<br>
 receive; and he could not help putting his wife's sage advice
into<br>
 practice.</p>

<p>"I will fall back on a simple little citizen's wife," said he
to<br>
 himself, recalling Madame Marneffe's adorable graces. "Such a
woman as<br>
 that will soon make me forget that grasping Josepha."</p>

<p>Now, this was what was happening at the same moment outside
and inside<br>
 the curiosity shop.</p>

<p>As he fixed his eyes on the windows of his new <i>belle</i>,
the Baron saw<br>
 the husband, who, while brushing his coat with his own hands,
was<br>
 apparently on the lookout, expecting to see some one on the
square.<br>
 Fearing lest he should be seen, and subsequently recognized,
the<br>
 amorous Baron turned his back on the Rue du Doyenne, or rather
stood<br>
 at three-quarters' face, as it were, so as to be able to glance
round<br>
 from time to time. This manoeuvre brought him face to face with
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, who, coming up from the quay, was doubling the
promontory of<br>
 houses to go home.</p>

<p>Valerie was evidently startled as she met the Baron's
astonished eye,<br>
 and she responded with a prudish dropping of her eyelids.</p>

<p>"A pretty woman," exclaimed he, "for whom a man would do many
foolish<br>
 things."</p>

<p>"Indeed, monsieur?" said she, turning suddenly, like a woman
who has<br>
 just come to some vehement decision, "you are Monsieur le Baron
Hulot,<br>
 I believe?"</p>

<p>The Baron, more and more bewildered, bowed assent.</p>

<p>"Then, as chance has twice made our eyes meet, and I am so
fortunate<br>
 as to have interested or puzzled you, I may tell you that,
instead of<br>
 doing anything foolish, you ought to do justice.--My husband's
fate<br>
 rests with you."</p>

<p>"And how may that be?" asked the gallant Baron.</p>

<p>"He is employed in your department in the War Office, under
Monsieur<br>
 Lebrun, in Monsieur Coquet's room," said she with a smile.</p>

<p>"I am quite disposed, Madame--Madame----?"</p>

<p>"Madame Marneffe."</p>

<p>"Dear little Madame Marneffe, to do injustice for your
sake.--I have a<br>
 cousin living in your house; I will go to see her one day
soon--as<br>
 soon as possible; bring your petition to me in her rooms."</p>

<p>"Pardon my boldness, Monsieur le Baron; you must understand
that if I<br>
 dare to address you thus, it is because I have no friend to
protect<br>
 me----"</p>

<p>"Ah, ha!"</p>

<p>"Monsieur, you misunderstand me," said she, lowering her
eyelids.</p>

<p>Hulot felt as if the sun had disappeared.</p>

<p>"I am at my wits' end, but I am an honest woman!" she went on.
"About<br>
 six months ago my only protector died, Marshal Montcornet--"</p>

<p>"Ah! You are his daughter?"</p>

<p>"Yes, monsieur; but he never acknowledged me."</p>

<p>"That was that he might leave you part of his fortune."</p>

<p>"He left me nothing; he made no will."</p>

<p>"Indeed! Poor little woman! The Marshal died suddenly of
apoplexy.<br>
 But, come, madame, hope for the best. The State must do
something for<br>
 the daughter of one of the Chevalier Bayards of the Empire."</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe bowed gracefully and went off, as proud of her
success<br>
 as the Baron was of his.</p>

<p>"Where the devil has she been so early?" thought he watching
the flow<br>
 of her skirts, to which she contrived to impart a somewhat
exaggerated<br>
 grace. "She looks too tired to have just come from a bath, and
her<br>
 husband is waiting for her. It is strange, and puzzles me
altogether."</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe having vanished within, the Baron wondered
what his<br>
 daughter was doing in the shop. As he went in, still staring at
Madame<br>
 Marneffe's windows, he ran against a young man with a pale brow
and<br>
 sparkling gray eyes, wearing a summer coat of black merino,
coarse<br>
 drill trousers, and tan shoes, with gaiters, rushing away
headlong; he<br>
 saw him run to the house in the Rue du Doyenne, into which he
went.</p>

<p>Hortense, on going into the shop, had at once recognized the
famous<br>
 group, conspicuously placed on a table in the middle and in
front of<br>
 the door. Even without the circumstances to which she owed
her<br>
 knowledge of this masterpiece, it would probably have struck her
by<br>
 the peculiar power which we must call the <i>brio</i>--the
<i>go</i>--of great<br>
 works; and the girl herself might in Italy have been taken as a
model<br>
 for the personification of <i>Brio</i>.</p>

<p><br>
 Not every work by a man of genius has in the same degree
that<br>
 brilliancy, that glory which is at once patent even to the
most<br>
 ignoble beholder. Thus, certain pictures by Raphael, such as
the<br>
 famous <i>Transfiguration</i>, the <i>Madonna di Foligno</i>,
and the frescoes<br>
 of the <i>Stanze</i> in the Vatican, do not at first captivate
our<br>
 admiration, as do the <i>Violin-player</i> in the Sciarra
Palace, the<br>
 portraits of the Doria family, and the <i>Vision of Ezekiel</i>
in the<br>
 Pitti Gallery, the <i>Christ bearing His Cross</i> in the
Borghese<br>
 collection, and the <i>Marriage of the Virgin</i> in the Brera
at Milan.<br>
 The <i>Saint John the Baptist</i> of the Tribuna, and <i>Saint
Luke painting</i><br>
 <i>the Virgin's portrait</i> in the Accademia at Rome, have not
the charm of<br>
 the <i>Portrait of Leo X.</i>, and of the <i>Virgin</i> at
Dresden.</p>

<p>And yet they are all of equal merit. Nay, more. The
<i>Stanze</i>, the<br>
 <i>Transfiguration</i>, the panels, and the three easel pictures
in the<br>
 Vatican are in the highest degree perfect and sublime. But they
demand<br>
 a stress of attention, even from the most accomplished beholder,
and<br>
 serious study, to be fully understood; while the
<i>Violin-player</i>, the<br>
 <i>Marriage of the Virgin</i>, and the <i>Vision of Ezekiel</i>
go straight to<br>
 the heart through the portal of sight, and make their home
there. It<br>
 is a pleasure to receive them thus without an effort; if it is
not the<br>
 highest phase of art, it is the happiest. This fact proves that,
in<br>
 the begetting of works of art, there is as much chance in
the<br>
 character of the offspring as there is in a family of children;
that<br>
 some will be happily graced, born beautiful, and costing their
mothers<br>
 little suffering, creatures on whom everything smiles, and with
whom<br>
 everything succeeds; in short, genius, like love, has its
fairer<br>
 blossoms.</p>

<p>This <i>brio</i>, an Italian word which the French have begun
to use, is<br>
 characteristic of youthful work. It is the fruit of an impetus
and<br>
 fire of early talent--an impetus which is met with again later
in some<br>
 happy hours; but this particular <i>brio</i> no longer comes
from the<br>
 artist's heart; instead of his flinging it into his work as a
volcano<br>
 flings up its fires, it comes to him from outside, inspired
by<br>
 circumstances, by love, or rivalry, often by hatred, and more
often<br>
 still by the imperious need of glory to be lived up to.</p>

<p>This group by Wenceslas was to his later works what the
<i>Marriage of</i><br>
 <i>the Virgin</i> is to the great mass of Raphael's, the first
step of a<br>
 gifted artist taken with the inimitable grace, the eagerness,
and<br>
 delightful overflowingness of a child, whose strength is
concealed<br>
 under the pink-and-white flesh full of dimples which seem to
echo to a<br>
 mother's laughter. Prince Eugene is said to have paid four
hundred<br>
 thousand francs for this picture, which would be worth a million
to<br>
 any nation that owned no picture by Raphael, but no one would
give<br>
 that sum for the finest of the frescoes, though their value is
far<br>
 greater as works of art.</p>

<p>Hortense restrained her admiration, for she reflected on the
amount of<br>
 her girlish savings; she assumed an air of indifference, and
said to<br>
 the dealer:</p>

<p>"What is the price of that?"</p>

<p>"Fifteen hundred francs," replied the man, sending a glance
of<br>
 intelligence to a young man seated on a stool in the corner.</p>

<p>The young man himself gazed in a stupefaction at Monsieur
Hulot's<br>
 living masterpiece. Hortense, forewarned, at once identified him
as<br>
 the artist, from the color that flushed a face pale with
endurance;<br>
 she saw the spark lighted up in his gray eyes by her question;
she<br>
 looked on the thin, drawn features, like those of a monk
consumed by<br>
 asceticism; she loved the red, well-formed mouth, the delicate
chin,<br>
 and the Pole's silky chestnut hair.</p>

<p>"If it were twelve hundred," said she, "I would beg you to
send it to<br>
 me."</p>

<p>"It is antique, mademoiselle," the dealer remarked, thinking,
like all<br>
 his fraternity, that, having uttered this <i>ne plus ultra</i>
of bric-a-<br>
 brac, there was no more to be said.</p>

<p>"Excuse me, monsieur," she replied very quietly, "it was made
this<br>
 year; I came expressly to beg you, if my price is accepted, to
send<br>
 the artist to see us, as it might be possible to procure him
some<br>
 important commissions."</p>

<p>"And if he is to have the twelve hundred francs, what am I
to<br>
 get? I am the dealer," said the man, with candid good-humor.</p>

<p>"To be sure!" replied the girl, with a slight curl of
disdain.</p>

<p>"Oh! mademoiselle, take it; I will make terms with the
dealer,"<br>
 cried the Livonian, beside himself.</p>

<p>Fascinated by Hortense's wonderful beauty and the love of art
she<br>
 displayed, he added:</p>

<p>"I am the sculptor of the group, and for ten days I have come
here<br>
 three times a day to see if anybody would recognize its merit
and<br>
 bargain for it. You are my first admirer--take it!"</p>

<p>"Come, then, monsieur, with the dealer, an hour hence.--Here
is my<br>
 father's card," replied Hortense.</p>

<p>Then, seeing the shopkeeper go into a back room to wrap the
group in a<br>
 piece of linen rag, she added in a low voice, to the great<br>
 astonishment of the artist, who thought he must be dreaming:</p>

<p>"For the benefit of your future prospects, Monsieur Wenceslas,
do not<br>
 mention the name of the purchaser to Mademoiselle Fischer, for
she is<br>
 our cousin."</p>

<p>The word cousin dazzled the artist's mind; he had a glimpse
of<br>
 Paradise whence this daughter of Eve had come to him. He had
dreamed<br>
 of the beautiful girl of whom Lisbeth had told him, as Hortense
had<br>
 dreamed of her cousin's lover; and, as she had entered the
shop--</p>

<p>"Ah!" thought he, "if she could but be like this!"</p>

<p>The look that passed between the lovers may be imagined; it
was a<br>
 flame, for virtuous lovers have no hypocrisies.</p>

<p>"Well, what the deuce are you doing here?" her father asked
her.</p>

<p>"I have been spending twelve hundred francs that I had saved.
Come."<br>
 And she took her father's arm.</p>

<p>"Twelve hundred francs?" he repeated.</p>

<p>"To be exact, thirteen hundred; you will lend me the odd
hundred?"</p>

<p>"And on what, in such a place, could you spend so much?"</p>

<p>"Ah! that is the question!" replied the happy girl. "If I have
got a<br>
 husband, he is not dear at the money."</p>

<p>"A husband! In that shop, my child?"</p>

<p>"Listen, dear little father; would you forbid my marrying a
great<br>
 artist?"</p>

<p>"No, my dear. A great artist in these days is a prince without
a title<br>
 --he has glory and fortune, the two chief social
advantages--next to<br>
 virtue," he added, in a smug tone.</p>

<p>"Oh, of course!" said Hortense. "And what do you think of
sculpture?"</p>

<p>"It is very poor business," replied Hulot, shaking his head.
"It needs<br>
 high patronage as well as great talent, for Government is the
only<br>
 purchaser. It is an art with no demand nowadays, where there are
no<br>
 princely houses, no great fortunes, no entailed mansions, no<br>
 hereditary estates. Only small pictures and small figures can
find a<br>
 place; the arts are endangered by this need of small
things."</p>

<p>"But if a great artist could find a demand?" said
Hortense.</p>

<p>"That indeed would solve the problem."</p>

<p>"Or had some one to back him?"</p>

<p>"That would be even better."</p>

<p>"If he were of noble birth?"</p>

<p>"Pooh!"</p>

<p>"A Count."</p>

<p>"And a sculptor?"</p>

<p>"He has no money."</p>

<p>"And so he counts on that of Mademoiselle Hortense Hulot?"
said the<br>
 Baron ironically, with an inquisitorial look into his daughter's
eyes.</p>

<p>"This great artist, a Count and a sculptor, has just seen
your<br>
 daughter for the first time in his life, and for the space of
five<br>
 minutes, Monsieur le Baron," Hortense calmly replied.
"Yesterday, you<br>
 must know, dear little father, while you were at the Chamber,
mamma<br>
 had a fainting fit. This, which she ascribed to a nervous
attack, was<br>
 the result of some worry that had to do with the failure of
my<br>
 marriage, for she told me that to get rid of me---"</p>

<p>"She is too fond of you to have used an expression----"</p>

<p>"So unparliamentary!" Hortense put in with a laugh. "No, she
did not<br>
 use those words; but I know that a girl old enough to marry and
who<br>
 does not find a husband is a heavy cross for respectable parents
to<br>
 bear.--Well, she thinks that if a man of energy and talent could
be<br>
 found, who would be satisfied with thirty thousand francs for
my<br>
 marriage portion, we might all be happy. In fact, she thought
it<br>
 advisable to prepare me for the modesty of my future lot, and
to<br>
 hinder me from indulging in too fervid dreams.--Which evidently
meant<br>
 an end to the intended marriage, and no settlements for me!"</p>

<p><br>
 "Your mother is a very good woman, noble, admirable!" replied
the<br>
 father, deeply humiliated, though not sorry to hear this
confession.</p>

<p>"She told me yesterday that she had your permission to sell
her<br>
 diamonds so as to give me something to marry on; but I should
like her<br>
 to keep her jewels, and to find a husband myself. I think I have
found<br>
 the man, the possible husband, answering to mamma's
prospectus----"</p>

<p>"There?--in the Place du Carrousel?--and in one morning?"</p>

<p>"Oh, papa, the mischief lies deeper!" said she archly.</p>

<p>"Well, come, my child, tell the whole story to your good old
father,"<br>
 said he persuasively, and concealing his uneasiness.</p>

<p>Under promise of absolute secrecy, Hortense repeated the
upshot of her<br>
 various conversations with her Cousin Betty. Then, when they got
home,<br>
 she showed the much-talked-of-seal to her father in evidence of
the<br>
 sagacity of her views. The father, in the depth of his heart,
wondered<br>
 at the skill and acumen of girls who act on instinct, discerning
the<br>
 simplicity of the scheme which her idealized love had suggested
in the<br>
 course of a single night to his guileless daughter.</p>

<p>"You will see the masterpiece I have just bought; it is to be
brought<br>
 home, and that dear Wenceslas is to come with the dealer.--The
man who<br>
 made that group ought to make a fortune; only use your influence
to<br>
 get him an order for a statue, and rooms at the
Institut----"</p>

<p>"How you run on!" cried her father. "Why, if you had your own
way, you<br>
 would be man and wife within the legal period--in eleven
days----"</p>

<p>"Must we wait so long?" said she, laughing. "But I fell in
love with<br>
 him in five minutes, as you fell in love with mamma at first
sight.<br>
 And he loves me as if we had known each other for two years.
Yes," she<br>
 said in reply to her father's look, "I read ten volumes of love
in his<br>
 eyes. And will not you and mamma accept him as my husband when
you see<br>
 that he is a man of genius? Sculpture is the greatest of the
Arts,"<br>
 she cried, clapping her hands and jumping. "I will tell you<br>
 everything----"</p>

<p>"What, is there more to come?" asked her father, smiling.</p>

<p>The child's complete and effervescent innocence had restored
her<br>
 father's peace of mind.</p>

<p>"A confession of the first importance," said she. "I loved him
without<br>
 knowing him; and, for the last hour, since seeing him, I am
crazy<br>
 about him."</p>

<p>"A little too crazy!" said the Baron, who was enjoying the
sight of<br>
 this guileless passion.</p>

<p>"Do not punish me for confiding in you," replied she. "It is
so<br>
 delightful to say to my father's heart, 'I love him! I am so
happy in<br>
 loving him!'--You will see my Wenceslas! His brow is so sad. The
sun<br>
 of genius shines in his gray eyes--and what an air he has! What
do you<br>
 think of Livonia? Is it a fine country?--The idea of Cousin
Betty's<br>
 marrying that young fellow! She might be his mother. It would
be<br>
 murder! I am quite jealous of all she has ever done for him. But
I<br>
 don't think my marriage will please her."</p>

<p>"See, my darling, we must hide nothing from your mother."</p>

<p>"I should have to show her the seal, and I promised not to
betray<br>
 Cousin Lisbeth, who is afraid, she says, of mamma's laughing at
her,"<br>
 said Hortense.</p>

<p>"You have scruples about the seal, and none about robbing your
cousin<br>
 of her lover."</p>

<p>"I promised about the seal--I made no promise about the
sculptor."</p>

<p>This adventure, patriarchal in its simplicity, came admirably
<i>a</i><br>
 <i>propos</i> to the unconfessed poverty of the family; the
Baron, while<br>
 praising his daughter for her candor, explained to her that she
must<br>
 now leave matters to the discretion of her parents.</p>

<p>"You understand, my child, that it is not your part to
ascertain<br>
 whether your cousin's lover is a Count, if he has all his
papers<br>
 properly certified, and if his conduct is a guarantee for
his<br>
 respectability.--As for your cousin, she refused five offers
when she<br>
 was twenty years younger; that will prove no obstacle, I
undertake to<br>
 say."</p>

<p>"Listen to me, papa; if you really wish to see me married,
never say a<br>
 word to Lisbeth about it till just before the contract is
signed. I<br>
 have been catechizing her about this business for the last six
months!<br>
 Well, there is something about her quite inexplicable----"</p>

<p>"What?" said her father, puzzled.</p>

<p>"Well, she looks evil when I say too much, even in joke, about
her<br>
 lover. Make inquiries, but leave me to row my own boat. My
confidence<br>
 ought to reassure you."</p>

<p>"The Lord said, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me.' You
are one<br>
 of those who have come back again," replied the Baron with a
touch of<br>
 irony.</p>

<p>After breakfast the dealer was announced, and the artist with
his<br>
 group. The sudden flush that reddened her daughter's face at
once made<br>
 the Baroness suspicious and then watchful, and the girl's
confusion<br>
 and the light in her eyes soon betrayed the mystery so badly
guarded<br>
 in her simple heart.</p>

<p>Count Steinbock, dressed in black, struck the Baron as a
very<br>
 gentlemanly young man.</p>

<p>"Would you undertake a bronze statue?" he asked, as he held up
the<br>
 group.</p>

<p>After admiring it on trust, he passed it on to his wife, who
knew<br>
 nothing about sculpture.</p>

<p>"It is beautiful, isn't it, mamma?" said Hortense in her
mother' ear.</p>

<p>"A statue! Monsieur, it is less difficult to execute a statue
than to<br>
 make a clock like this, which my friend here has been kind
enough to<br>
 bring," said the artist in reply.</p>

<p>The dealer was placing on the dining-room sideboard the wax
model of<br>
 the twelve Hours that the Loves were trying to delay.</p>

<p>"Leave the clock with me," said the Baron, astounded at the
beauty of<br>
 the sketch. "I should like to show it to the Ministers of the
Interior<br>
 and of Commerce."</p>

<p>"Who is the young man in whom you take so much interest?" the
Baroness<br>
 asked her daughter.</p>

<p>"An artist who could afford to execute this model could get a
hundred<br>
 thousand francs for it," said the curiosity-dealer, putting on
a<br>
 knowing and mysterious look as he saw that the artist and the
girl<br>
 were interchanging glances. "He would only need to sell twenty
copies<br>
 at eight thousand francs each--for the materials would cost
about a<br>
 thousand crowns for each example. But if each copy were numbered
and<br>
 the mould destroyed, it would certainly be possible to meet
with<br>
 twenty amateurs only too glad to possess a replica of such a
work."</p>

<p>"A hundred thousand francs!" cried Steinbock, looking from the
dealer<br>
 to Hortense, the Baron, and the Baroness.</p>

<p>"Yes, a hundred thousand francs," repeated the dealer. "If I
were rich<br>
 enough, I would buy it of you myself for twenty thousand francs;
for<br>
 by destroying the mould it would become a valuable property. But
one<br>
 of the princes ought to pay thirty or forty thousand francs for
such a<br>
 work to ornament his drawing-room. No man has ever succeeded in
making<br>
 a clock satisfactory alike to the vulgar and to the connoisseur,
and<br>
 this one, sir, solves the difficulty."</p>

<p>"This is for yourself, monsieur," said Hortense, giving six
gold<br>
 pieces to the dealer.</p>

<p>"Never breath a word of this visit to any one living," said
the artist<br>
 to his friend, at the door. "If you should be asked where we
sold the<br>
 group, mention the Duc d'Herouville, the famous collector in the
Rue<br>
 de Varenne."</p>

<p>The dealer nodded assent.</p>

<p>"And your name?" said Hulot to the artist when he came
back.</p>

<p>"Count Steinbock."</p>

<p>"Have you the papers that prove your identity?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Monsieur le Baron. They are in Russian and in German,
but not<br>
 legalized."</p>

<p>"Do you feel equal to undertaking a statue nine feet
high?"</p>

<p>"Yes, monsieur."</p>

<p>"Well, then, if the persons whom I shall consult are satisfied
with<br>
 your work, I can secure you the commission for the statue of
Marshal<br>
 Montcornet, which is to be erected on his monument at
Pere-Lachaise.<br>
 The Minister of War and the old officers of the Imperial Guard
have<br>
 subscribed a sum large enough to enable us to select our
artist."</p>

<p>"Oh, monsieur, it will make my fortune!" exclaimed
Steinbock,<br>
 overpowered by so much happiness at once.</p>

<p>"Be easy," replied the Baron graciously. "If the two ministers
to whom<br>
 I propose to show your group and this sketch in wax are
delighted with<br>
 these two pieces, your prospects of a fortune are good."</p>

<p>Hortense hugged her father's arm so tightly as to hurt
him.</p>

<p>"Bring me your papers, and say nothing of your hopes to
anybody, not<br>
 even to our old Cousin Betty."</p>

<p>"Lisbeth?" said Madame Hulot, at last understanding the end of
all<br>
 this, though unable to guess the means.</p>

<p>"I could give proof of my skill by making a bust of the
Baroness,"<br>
 added Wenceslas.</p>

<p>The artist, struck by Madame Hulot's beauty, was comparing the
mother<br>
 and daughter.</p>

<p>"Indeed, monsieur, life may smile upon you," said the Baron,
quite<br>
 charmed by Count Steinbock's refined and elegant manner. "You
will<br>
 find out that in Paris no man is clever for nothing, and
that<br>
 persevering toil always finds its reward here."</p>

<p>Hortense, with a blush, held out to the young man a pretty
Algerine<br>
 purse containing sixty gold pieces. The artist, with something
still<br>
 of a gentleman's pride, responded with a mounting color easy
enough to<br>
 interpret.</p>

<p>"This, perhaps, is the first money your works have brought
you?" said<br>
 Adeline.</p>

<p>"Yes, madame--my works of art. It is not the first-fruits of
my labor,<br>
 for I have been a workman."</p>

<p>"Well, we must hope my daughter's money will bring you good
luck,"<br>
 said she.</p>

<p>"And take it without scruple," added the Baron, seeing that
Wenceslas<br>
 held the purse in his hand instead of pocketing it. "The sum
will be<br>
 repaid by some rich man, a prince perhaps, who will offer it
with<br>
 interest to possess so fine a work."</p>

<p>"Oh, I want it too much myself, papa, to give it up to anybody
in the<br>
 world, even a royal prince!"</p>

<p>"I can make a far prettier thing than that for you,
mademoiselle."</p>

<p>"But it would not be this one," replied she; and then, as if
ashamed<br>
 of having said too much, she ran out into the garden.</p>

<p>"Then I shall break the mould and the model as soon as I go
home,"<br>
 said Steinbock.</p>

<p>"Fetch me your papers, and you will hear of me before long, if
you are<br>
 equal to what I expect of you, monsieur."</p>

<p>The artist on this could but take leave. After bowing to
Madame Hulot<br>
 and Hortense, who came in from the garden on purpose, he went
off to<br>
 walk in the Tuileries, not bearing--not daring--to return to
his<br>
 attic, where his tyrant would pelt him with questions and wring
his<br>
 secret from him.</p>

<p>Hortense's adorer conceived of groups and statues by the
hundred; he<br>
 felt strong enough to hew the marble himself, like Canova, who
was<br>
 also a feeble man, and nearly died of it. He was transfigured
by<br>
 Hortense, who was to him inspiration made visible.</p>

<p>"Now then," said the Baroness to her daughter, "what does all
this<br>
 mean?"</p>

<p>"Well, dear mamma, you have just seen Cousin Lisbeth's lover,
who now,<br>
 I hope, is mine. But shut your eyes, know nothing. Good Heavens!
I was<br>
 to keep it all from you, and I cannot help telling you
everything----"</p>

<p>"Good-bye, children!" said the Baron, kissing his wife and
daughter;<br>
 "I shall perhaps go to call on the Nanny, and from her I shall
hear a<br>
 great deal about our young man."</p>

<p>"Papa, be cautious!" said Hortense.</p>

<p>"Oh! little girl!" cried the Baroness when Hortense had poured
out her<br>
 poem, of which the morning's adventure was the last canto,
"dear<br>
 little girl, Artlessness will always be the artfulest puss on
earth!"</p>

<p>Genuine passions have an unerring instinct. Set a greedy man
before a<br>
 dish of fruit and he will make no mistake, but take the choicest
even<br>
 without seeing it. In the same way, if you allow a girl who is
well<br>
 brought up to choose a husband for herself, if she is in a
position to<br>
 meet the man of her heart, rarely will she blunder. The act of
nature<br>
 in such cases is known as love at first sight; and in love,
first<br>
 sight is practically second sight.</p>

<p>The Baroness' satisfaction, though disguised under maternal
dignity,<br>
 was as great as her daughter's; for, of the three ways of
marrying<br>
 Hortense of which Crevel had spoken, the best, as she opined,
was<br>
 about to be realized. And she regarded this little drama as an
answer<br>
 by Providence to her fervent prayers.</p>

<p>Mademoiselle Fischer's galley slave, obliged at last to go
home,<br>
 thought he might hide his joy as a lover under his glee as an
artist<br>
 rejoicing over his first success.</p>

<p>"Victory! my group is sold to the Duc d'Herouville, who is
going to<br>
 give me some commissions," cried he, throwing the twelve
hundred<br>
 francs in gold on the table before the old maid.</p>

<p>He had, as may be supposed concealed Hortense's purse; it lay
next to<br>
 his heart.</p>

<p>"And a very good thing too," said Lisbeth. "I was working
myself to<br>
 death. You see, child, money comes in slowly in the business you
have<br>
 taken up, for this is the first you have earned, and you have
been<br>
 grinding at it for near on five years now. That money barely
repays me<br>
 for what you have cost me since I took your promissory note;
that is<br>
 all I have got by my savings. But be sure of one thing," she
said,<br>
 after counting the gold, "this money will all be spent on you.
There<br>
 is enough there to keep us going for a year. In a year you may
now be<br>
 able to pay your debt and have a snug little sum of your own, if
you<br>
 go on in the same way."</p>

<p>Wenceslas, finding his trick successful, expatiated on the
Duc<br>
 d'Herouville.</p>

<p>"I will fit you out in a black suit, and get you some new
linen," said<br>
 Lisbeth, "for you must appear presentably before your patrons;
and<br>
 then you must have a larger and better apartment than your
horrible<br>
 garret, and furnish it property.--You look so bright, you are
not like<br>
 the same creature," she added, gazing at Wenceslas.</p>

<p>"But my work is pronounced a masterpiece."</p>

<p>"Well, so much the better! Do some more," said the arid
creature, who<br>
 was nothing but practical, and incapable of understanding the
joy of<br>
 triumph or of beauty in Art. "Trouble your head no further about
what<br>
 you have sold; make something else to sell. You have spent two
hundred<br>
 francs in money, to say nothing of your time and your labor, on
that<br>
 devil of a <i>Samson</i>. Your clock will cost you more than two
thousand<br>
 francs to execute. I tell you what, if you will listen to me,
you will<br>
 finish the two little boys crowning the little girl with
cornflowers;<br>
 that would just suit the Parisians.--I will go round to Monsieur
Graff<br>
 the tailor before going to Monsieur Crevel.--Go up now and leave
me to<br>
 dress."</p>

<p>Next day the Baron, perfectly crazy about Madame Marneffe,
went to see<br>
 Cousin Betty, who was considerably amazed on opening the door to
see<br>
 who her visitor was, for he had never called on her before. She
at<br>
 once said to herself, "Can it be that Hortense wants my
lover?"--for<br>
 she had heard the evening before, at Monsieur Crevel's, that
the<br>
 marriage with the Councillor of the Supreme Court was broken
off.</p>

<p>"What, Cousin! you here? This is the first time you have ever
been to<br>
 see me, and it is certainly not for love of my fine eyes that
you have<br>
 come now."</p>

<p>"Fine eyes is the truth," said the Baron; "you have as fine
eyes as I<br>
 have ever seen----"</p>

<p>"Come, what are you here for? I really am ashamed to receive
you in<br>
 such a kennel."</p>

<p>The outer room of the two inhabited by Lisbeth served her as
sitting-<br>
 room, dining-room, kitchen, and workroom. The furniture was such
as<br>
 beseemed a well-to-do artisan--walnut-wood chairs with straw
seats, a<br>
 small walnut-wood dining table, a work table, some colored
prints in<br>
 black wooden frames, short muslin curtains to the windows, the
floor<br>
 well polished and shining with cleanliness, not a speck of
dust<br>
 anywhere, but all cold and dingy, like a picture by Terburg in
every<br>
 particular, even to the gray tone given by a wall paper once
blue and<br>
 now faded to gray. As to the bedroom, no human being had
ever<br>
 penetrated its secrets.</p>

<p>The Baron took it all in at a glance, saw the sign-manual
of<br>
 commonness on every detail, from the cast-iron stove to the
household<br>
 utensils, and his gorge rose as he said to himself, "And
<i>this</i> is<br>
 virtue!--What am I here for?" said he aloud. "You are far too
cunning<br>
 not to guess, and I had better tell you plainly," cried he,
sitting<br>
 down and looking out across the courtyard through an opening he
made<br>
 in the puckered curtain. "There is a very pretty woman in
the<br>
 house----"</p>

<p>"Madame Marneffe! Now I understand!" she exclaimed, seeing it
all.<br>
 "But Josepha?"</p>

<p>"Alas, Cousin, Josepha is no more. I was turned out of doors
like a<br>
 discarded footman."</p>

<p>"And you would like . . .?" said Lisbeth, looking at the Baron
with<br>
 the dignity of a prude on her guard a quarter of an hour too
soon.</p>

<p>"As Madame Marneffe is very much the lady, and the wife of an
employe,<br>
 you can meet her without compromising yourself," the Baron went
on,<br>
 "and I should like to see you neighborly. Oh! you need not be
alarmed;<br>
 she will have the greatest consideration for the cousin of
her<br>
 husband's chief."</p>

<p>At this moment the rustle of a gown was heard on the stairs
and the<br>
 footstep of a woman wearing the thinnest boots. The sound ceased
on<br>
 the landing. There was a tap at the door, and Madame Marneffe
came in.</p>

<p>"Pray excuse me, mademoiselle, for thus intruding upon you,
but I<br>
 failed to find you yesterday when I came to call; we are
near<br>
 neighbors; and if I had known that you were related to Monsieur
le<br>
 Baron, I should long since have craved your kind interest with
him. I<br>
 saw him come in, so I took the liberty of coming across; for
my<br>
 husband, Monsieur le Baron, spoke to me of a report on the
office<br>
 clerks which is to be laid before the minister to-morrow."</p>

<p>She seemed quite agitated and nervous--but she had only run
upstairs.</p>

<p>"You have no need to play the petitioner, fair lady," replied
the<br>
 Baron. "It is I who should ask the favor of seeing you."</p>

<p>"Very well, if mademoiselle allows it, pray come!" said
Madame<br>
 Marneffe.</p>

<p>"Yes--go, Cousin, I will join you," said Lisbeth
judiciously.</p>

<p>The Parisienne had so confidently counted on the chief's visit
and<br>
 intelligence, that not only had she dressed herself for so
important<br>
 an interview--she had dressed her room. Early in the day it had
been<br>
 furnished with flowers purchased on credit. Marneffe had helped
his<br>
 wife to polish the furniture, down to the smallest objects,
washing,<br>
 brushing, and dusting everything. Valerie wished to be found in
an<br>
 atmosphere of sweetness, to attract the chief and to please him
enough<br>
 to have a right to be cruel; to tantalize him as a child would,
with<br>
 all the tricks of fashionable tactics. She had gauged Hulot.
Give a<br>
 Paris woman at bay four-and-twenty hours, and she will overthrow
a<br>
 ministry.</p>

<p><br>
 The man of the Empire, accustomed to the ways to the Empire, was
no<br>
 doubt quite ignorant of the ways of modern love-making, of
the<br>
 scruples in vogue and the various styles of conversation
invented<br>
 since 1830, which led to the poor weak woman being regarded as
the<br>
 victim of her lover's desires--a Sister of Charity salving a
wound, an<br>
 angel sacrificing herself.</p>

<p>This modern art of love uses a vast amount of evangelical
phrases in<br>
 the service of the Devil. Passion is martyrdom. Both parties
aspire to<br>
 the Ideal, to the Infinite; love is to make them so much better.
All<br>
 these fine words are but a pretext for putting increased ardor
into<br>
 the practical side of it, more frenzy into a fall than of old.
This<br>
 hypocrisy, a characteristic of the times, is a gangrene in
gallantry.<br>
 The lovers are both angels, and they behave, if they can, like
two<br>
 devils.</p>

<p>Love had no time for such subtle analysis between two
campaigns, and<br>
 in 1809 its successes were as rapid as those of the Empire. So,
under<br>
 the Restoration, the handsome Baron, a lady's man once more, had
begun<br>
 by consoling some old friends now fallen from the political
firmament,<br>
 like extinguished stars, and then, as he grew old, was captured
by<br>
 Jenny Cadine and Josepha.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe had placed her batteries after due study of
the<br>
 Baron's past life, which her husband had narrated in much
detail,<br>
 after picking up some information in the offices. The comedy of
modern<br>
 sentiment might have the charm of novelty to the Baron; Valerie
had<br>
 made up her mind as to her scheme; and we may say the trial of
her<br>
 power that she made this morning answered her highest
expectations.<br>
 Thanks to her manoeuvres, sentimental, high-flown, and
romantic,<br>
 Valerie, without committing herself to any promises, obtained
for her<br>
 husband the appointment as deputy head of the office and the
Cross of<br>
 the Legion of Honor.</p>

<p>The campaign was not carried out without little dinners at the
<i>Rocher</i><br>
 <i>de Cancale</i>, parties to the play, and gifts in the form of
lace,<br>
 scarves, gowns, and jewelry. The apartment in the Rue du Doyenne
was<br>
 not satisfactory; the Baron proposed to furnish another
magnificently<br>
 in a charming new house in the Rue Vanneau.</p>

<p>Monsieur Marneffe got a fortnight's leave, to be taken a month
hence<br>
 for urgent private affairs in the country, and a present in
money; he<br>
 promised himself that he would spend both in a little town
in<br>
 Switzerland, studying the fair sex.</p>

<p>While Monsieur Hulot thus devoted himself to the lady he
was<br>
 "protecting," he did not forget the young artist. Comte
Popinot,<br>
 Minister of Commerce, was a patron of Art; he paid two thousand
francs<br>
 for a copy of the <i>Samson</i> on condition that the mould
should be<br>
 broken, and that there should be no <i>Samson</i> but his and
Mademoiselle<br>
 Hulot's. The group was admired by a Prince, to whom the model
sketch<br>
 for the clock was also shown, and who ordered it; but that again
was<br>
 to be unique, and he offered thirty thousand francs for it.</p>

<p>Artists who were consulted, and among them Stidmann, were of
opinion<br>
 that the man who had sketched those two models was capable
of<br>
 achieving a statue. The Marshal Prince de Wissembourg, Minister
of<br>
 War, and President of the Committee for the subscriptions to
the<br>
 monument of Marshal Montcornet, called a meeting, at which it
was<br>
 decided that the execution of the work should be placed in
Steinbock's<br>
 hands. The Comte de Rastignac, at that time Under-secretary of
State,<br>
 wished to possess a work by the artist, whose glory was waxing
amid<br>
 the acclamations of his rivals. Steinbock sold to him the
charming<br>
 group of two little boys crowning a little girl, and he promised
to<br>
 secure for the sculptor a studio attached to the Government
marble-<br>
 quarries, situated, as all the world knows, at Le
Gros-Caillou.</p>

<p>This was a success, such success as is won in Paris, that is
to say,<br>
 stupendous success, that crushes those whose shoulders and loins
are<br>
 not strong enough to bear it--as, be it said, not unfrequently
is the<br>
 case. Count Wenceslas Steinbock was written about in all the<br>
 newspapers and reviews without his having the least suspicion of
it,<br>
 any more than had Mademoiselle Fischer. Every day, as soon as
Lisbeth<br>
 had gone out to dinner, Wenceslas went to the Baroness' and
spent an<br>
 hour or two there, excepting on the evenings when Lisbeth dined
with<br>
 the Hulots.</p>

<p>This state of things lasted for several days.</p>

<p>The Baron, assured of Count Steinbock's titles and position;
the<br>
 Baroness, pleased with his character and habits; Hortense, proud
of<br>
 her permitted love and of her suitor's fame, none of them
hesitated to<br>
 speak of the marriage; in short, the artist was in the seventh
heaven,<br>
 when an indiscretion on Madame Marneffe's part spoilt all.</p>

<p>And this was how.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, whom the Baron wished to see intimate with Madame
Marneffe,<br>
 that she might keep an eye on the couple, had already dined
with<br>
 Valerie; and she, on her part, anxious to have an ear in the
Hulot<br>
 house, made much of the old maid. It occurred to Valerie to
invite<br>
 Mademoiselle Fischer to a house-warming in the new apartments
she was<br>
 about to move into. Lisbeth, glad to have found another house to
dine<br>
 in, and bewitched by Madame Marneffe, had taken a great fancy
to<br>
 Valerie. Of all the persons she had made acquaintance with, no
one had<br>
 taken so much pains to please her. In fact, Madame Marneffe,
full of<br>
 attentions for Mademoiselle Fischer, found herself in the
position<br>
 towards Lisbeth that Lisbeth held towards the Baroness,
Monsieur<br>
 Rivet, Crevel, and the others who invited her to dinner.</p>

<p>The Marneffes had excited Lisbeth's compassion by allowing her
to see<br>
 the extreme poverty of the house, while varnishing it as usual
with<br>
 the fairest colors; their friends were under obligations to them
and<br>
 ungrateful; they had had much illness; Madame Fortin, her
mother, had<br>
 never known of their distress, and had died believing herself
wealthy<br>
 to the end, thanks to their superhuman efforts--and so
forth.</p>

<p>"Poor people!" said she to her Cousin Hulot, "you are right to
do what<br>
 you can for them; they are so brave and so kind! They can hardly
live<br>
 on the thousand crowns he gets as deputy-head of the office, for
they<br>
 have got into debt since Marshal Montcornet's death. It is
barbarity<br>
 on the part of the Government to suppose that a clerk with a
wife and<br>
 family can live in Paris on two thousand four hundred francs a
year."</p>

<p>And so, within a very short time, a young woman who affected
regard<br>
 for her, who told her everything, and consulted her, who
flattered<br>
 her, and seemed ready to yield to her guidance, had become
dearer to<br>
 the eccentric Cousin Lisbeth than all her relations.</p>

<p>The Baron, on his part, admiring in Madame Marneffe such
propriety,<br>
 education, and breeding as neither Jenny Cadine nor Josepha, nor
any<br>
 friend of theirs had to show, had fallen in love with her in a
month,<br>
 developing a senile passion, a senseless passion, which had
an<br>
 appearance of reason. In fact, he found here neither the banter,
nor<br>
 the orgies, nor the reckless expenditure, nor the depravity, nor
the<br>
 scorn of social decencies, nor the insolent independence which
had<br>
 brought him to grief alike with the actress and the singer. He
was<br>
 spared, too, the rapacity of the courtesan, like unto the thirst
of<br>
 dry sand.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe, of whom he had made a friend and confidante,
made the<br>
 greatest difficulties over accepting any gift from him.</p>

<p>"Appointments, official presents, anything you can extract
from the<br>
 Government; but do not begin by insulting a woman whom you
profess to<br>
 love," said Valerie. "If you do, I shall cease to believe
you--and I<br>
 like to believe you," she added, with a glance like Saint
Theresa<br>
 leering at heaven.</p>

<p>Every time he made her a present there was a fortress to be
stormed, a<br>
 conscience to be over-persuaded. The hapless Baron laid deep<br>
 stratagems to offer her some trifle--costly, nevertheless--proud
of<br>
 having at last met with virtue and the realization of his
dreams. In<br>
 this primitive household, as he assured himself, he was the god
as<br>
 much as in his own. And Monsieur Marneffe seemed at a thousand
leagues<br>
 from suspecting that the Jupiter of his office intended to
descend on<br>
 his wife in a shower of gold; he was his august chief's
humblest<br>
 slave.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe, twenty-three years of age, a pure and bashful
middle-<br>
 class wife, a blossom hidden in the Rue du Doyenne, could know
nothing<br>
 of the depravity and demoralizing harlotry which the Baron could
no<br>
 longer think of without disgust, for he had never known the
charm of<br>
 recalcitrant virtue, and the coy Valerie made him enjoy it to
the<br>
 utmost--all along the line, as the saying goes.</p>

<p>The question having come to this point between Hector and
Valerie, it<br>
 is not astonishing that Valerie should have heard from Hector
the<br>
 secret of the intended marriage between the great sculptor
Steinbock<br>
 and Hortense Hulot. Between a lover on his promotion and a lady
who<br>
 hesitates long before becoming his mistress, there are
contests,<br>
 uttered or unexpressed, in which a word often betrays a thought;
as,<br>
 in fencing, the foils fly as briskly as the swords in duel. Then
a<br>
 prudent man follows the example of Monsieur de Turenne. Thus the
Baron<br>
 had hinted at the greater freedom his daughter's marriage would
allow<br>
 him, in reply to the tender Valerie, who more than once had
exclaimed:</p>

<p>"I cannot imagine how a woman can go wrong for a man who is
not wholly<br>
 hers."</p>

<p>And a thousand times already the Baron had declared that for
five-and-<br>
 twenty years all had been at an end between Madame Hulot and
himself.</p>

<p>"And they say she is so handsome!" replied Madame Marneffe. "I
want<br>
 proof."</p>

<p>"You shall have it," said the Baron, made happy by this
demand, by<br>
 which his Valerie committed herself.</p>

<p>Hector had then been compelled to reveal his plans, already
being<br>
 carried into effect in the Rue Vanneau, to prove to Valerie that
he<br>
 intended to devote to her that half of his life which belonged
to his<br>
 lawful wife, supposing that day and night equally divide the
existence<br>
 of civilized humanity. He spoke of decently deserting his
wife,<br>
 leaving her to herself as soon as Hortense should be married.
The<br>
 Baroness would then spend all her time with Hortense or the
young<br>
 Hulot couple; he was sure of her submission.</p>

<p>"And then, my angel, my true life, my real home will be in the
Rue<br>
 Vanneau."</p>

<p>"Bless me, how you dispose of me!" said Madame Marneffe. "And
my<br>
 husband----"</p>

<p>"That rag!"</p>

<p>"To be sure, as compared with you so he is!" said she with a
laugh.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe, having heard Steinbock's history, was
frantically<br>
 eager to see the young Count; perhaps she wished to have some
trifle<br>
 of his work while they still lived under the same roof. This
curiosity<br>
 so seriously annoyed the Baron that Valerie swore to him that
she<br>
 would never even look at Wenceslas. But though she obtained, as
the<br>
 reward of her surrender of this wish, a little tea-service of
old<br>
 Sevres <i>pate tendre</i>, she kept her wish at the bottom of
her heart, as<br>
 if written on tablets.</p>

<p>So one day when she had begged "<i>my</i> Cousin Betty" to
come to take<br>
 coffee with her in her room, she opened on the subject of her
lover,<br>
 to know how she might see him without risk.</p>

<p>"My dear child," said she, for they called each my dear, "why
have you<br>
 never introduced your lover to me? Do you know that within a
short<br>
 time he has become famous?"</p>

<p>"He famous?"</p>

<p>"He is the one subject of conversation."</p>

<p>"Pooh!" cried Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"He is going to execute the statue of my father, and I could
be of<br>
 great use to him and help him to succeed in the work; for
Madame<br>
 Montcornet cannot lend him, as I can, a miniature by Sain, a
beautiful<br>
 thing done in 1809, before the Wagram Campaign, and given to my
poor<br>
 mother--Montcornet when he was young and handsome."</p>

<p>Sain and Augustin between them held the sceptre of miniature
painting<br>
 under the Empire.</p>

<p>"He is going to make a statue, my dear, did you say?"</p>

<p>"Nine feet high--by the orders of the Minister of War. Why,
where have<br>
 you dropped from that I should tell you the news? Why, the
Government<br>
 is going to give Count Steinbock rooms and a studio at Le
Gros-<br>
 Caillou, the depot for marble; your Pole will be made the
Director, I<br>
 should not wonder, with two thousand francs a year and a ring on
his<br>
 finger."</p>

<p>"How do you know all this when I have heard nothing about it?"
said<br>
 Lisbeth at last, shaking off her amazement.</p>

<p>"Now, my dear little Cousin Betty," said Madame Marneffe, in
an<br>
 insinuating voice, "are you capable of devoted friendship, put
to any<br>
 test? Shall we henceforth be sisters? Will you swear to me never
to<br>
 have a secret from me any more than I from you--to act as my
spy, as I<br>
 will be yours?--Above all, will you pledge yourself never to
betray me<br>
 either to my husband or to Monsieur Hulot, and never reveal that
it<br>
 was I who told you----?"</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe broke off in this spurring harangue;
Lisbeth<br>
 frightened her. The peasant-woman's face was terrible; her
piercing<br>
 black eyes had the glare of the tiger's; her face was like that
we<br>
 ascribe to a pythoness; she set her teeth to keep them from<br>
 chattering, and her whole frame quivered convulsively. She had
pushed<br>
 her clenched fingers under her cap to clutch her hair and
support her<br>
 head, which felt too heavy; she was on fire. The smoke of the
flame<br>
 that scorched her seemed to emanate from her wrinkles as from
the<br>
 crevasses rent by a volcanic eruption. It was a startling
spectacle.</p>

<p>"Well, why do you stop?" she asked in a hollow voice. "I will
be all<br>
 to you that I have been to him.--Oh, I would have given him my
life-<br>
 blood!"</p>

<p>"You loved him then?"</p>

<p>"Like a child of my own!"</p>

<p>"Well, then," said Madame Marneffe, with a breath of relief,
"if you<br>
 only love him in that way, you will be very happy--for you wish
him to<br>
 be happy?"</p>

<p>Lisbeth replied by a nod as hasty as a madwoman's.</p>

<p>"He is to marry your Cousin Hortense in a month's time."</p>

<p>"Hortense!" shrieked the old maid, striking her forehead, and
starting<br>
 to her feet.</p>

<p>"Well, but then you were really in love with this young man?"
asked<br>
 Valerie.</p>

<p>"My dear, we are bound for life and death, you and I,"
said<br>
 Mademoiselle Fischer. "Yes, if you have any love affairs, to me
they<br>
 are sacred. Your vices will be virtues in my eyes.--For I shall
need<br>
 your vices!"</p>

<p>"Then did you live with him?" asked Valerie.</p>

<p>"No; I meant to be a mother to him."</p>

<p>"I give it up. I cannot understand," said Valerie. "In that
case you<br>
 are neither betrayed nor cheated, and you ought to be very happy
to<br>
 see him so well married; he is now fairly afloat. And, at any
rate,<br>
 your day is over. Our artist goes to Madame Hulot's every
evening as<br>
 soon as you go out to dinner."</p>

<p>"Adeline!" muttered Lisbeth. "Oh, Adeline, you shall pay for
this! I<br>
 will make you uglier than I am."</p>

<p>"You are as pale as death!" exclaimed Valerie. "There is
something<br>
 wrong?--Oh, what a fool I am! The mother and daughter must
have<br>
 suspected that you would raise some obstacles in the way of
this<br>
 affair since they have kept it from you," said Madame Marneffe.
"But<br>
 if you did not live with the young man, my dear, all this is a
greater<br>
 puzzle to me than my husband's feelings----"</p>

<p>"Ah, you don't know," said Lisbeth; "you have no idea of all
their<br>
 tricks. It is the last blow that kills. And how many such blows
have I<br>
 had to bruise my soul! You don't know that from the time when I
could<br>
 first feel, I have been victimized for Adeline. I was beaten,
and she<br>
 was petted; I was dressed like a scullion, and she had clothes
like a<br>
 lady's; I dug in the garden and cleaned the vegetables, and
she--she<br>
 never lifted a finger for anything but to make up some
finery!--She<br>
 married the Baron, she came to shine at the Emperor's Court,
while I<br>
 stayed in our village till 1809, waiting for four years for a
suitable<br>
 match; they brought me away, to be sure, but only to make me a
work-<br>
 woman, and to offer me clerks or captains like coalheavers for
a<br>
 husband! I have had their leavings for twenty-six years!--And
now like<br>
 the story in the Old Testament, the poor relation has one
ewe-lamb<br>
 which is all her joy, and the rich man who has flocks covets the
ewe-<br>
 lamb and steals it--without warning, without asking. Adeline
has<br>
 meanly robbed me of my happiness!--Adeline! Adeline! I will see
you in<br>
 the mire, and sunk lower than myself!--And Hortense--I loved
her, and<br>
 she has cheated me. The Baron.--No, it is impossible. Tell me
again<br>
 what is really true of all this."</p>

<p><br>
 "Be calm, my dear child."</p>

<p>"Valerie, my darling, I will be calm," said the strange
creature,<br>
 sitting down again. "One thing only can restore me to reason;
give me<br>
 proofs."</p>

<p>"Your Cousin Hortense has the <i>Samson</i> group--here is a
lithograph<br>
 from it published in a review. She paid for it out of her
pocket-<br>
 money, and it is the Baron who, to benefit his future
son-in-law, is<br>
 pushing him, getting everything for him."</p>

<p>"Water!--water!" said Lisbeth, after glancing at the print,
below<br>
 which she read, "A group belonging to Mademoiselle Hulot
d'Ervy."<br>
 "Water! my head is burning, I am going mad!"</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe fetched some water. Lisbeth took off her
cap,<br>
 unfastened her black hair, and plunged her head into the basin
her new<br>
 friend held for her. She dipped her forehead into it several
times,<br>
 and checked the incipient inflammation. After this douche
she<br>
 completely recovered her self-command.</p>

<p>"Not a word," said she to Madame Marneffe as she wiped her
face--"not<br>
 a word of all this.--You see, I am quite calm; everything is<br>
 forgotten. I am thinking of something very different."</p>

<p>"She will be in Charenton to-morrow, that is very certain,"
thought<br>
 Madame Marneffe, looking at the old maid.</p>

<p>"What is to be done?" Lisbeth went on. "You see, my angel,
there is<br>
 nothing for it but to hold my tongue, bow my head, and drift to
the<br>
 grave, as all water runs to the river. What could I try to do?
I<br>
 should like to grind them all--Adeline, her daughter, and the
Baron--<br>
 all to dust! But what can a poor relation do against a rich
family? It<br>
 would be the story of the earthen pot and the iron pot."</p>

<p>"Yes; you are right," said Valerie. "You can only pull as much
hay as<br>
 you can to your side of the manger. That is all the upshot of
life in<br>
 Paris."</p>

<p>"Besides," said Lisbeth, "I shall soon die, I can tell you, if
I lose<br>
 that boy to whom I fancied I could always be a mother, and with
whom I<br>
 counted on living all my days----"</p>

<p>There were tears in her eyes, and she paused. Such emotion in
this<br>
 woman made of sulphur and flame, made Valerie shudder.</p>

<p>"Well, at any rate, I have found you," said Lisbeth, taking
Valerie's<br>
 hand, "that is some consolation in this dreadful trouble.--We
shall be<br>
 true friends; and why should we ever part? I shall never cross
your<br>
 track. No one will ever be in love with me!--Those who would
have<br>
 married me, would only have done it to secure my Cousin
Hulot's<br>
 interest. With energy enough to scale Paradise, to have to
devote it<br>
 to procuring bread and water, a few rags, and a garret!--That
is<br>
 martyrdom, my dear, and I have withered under it."</p>

<p>She broke off suddenly, and shot a black flash into Madame
Marneffe's<br>
 blue eyes, a glance that pierced the pretty woman's soul, as the
point<br>
 of a dagger might have pierced her heart.</p>

<p>"And what is the use of talking?" she exclaimed in reproof to
herself.<br>
 "I never said so much before, believe me! The tables will be
turned<br>
 yet!" she added after a pause. "As you so wisely say, let us
sharpen<br>
 our teeth, and pull down all the hay we can get."</p>

<p>"You are very wise," said Madame Marneffe, who had been
frightened by<br>
 this scene, and had no remembrance of having uttered this maxim.
"I am<br>
 sure you are right, my dear child. Life is not so long after
all, and<br>
 we must make the best of it, and make use of others to
contribute to<br>
 our enjoyment. Even I have learned that, young as I am. I was
brought<br>
 up a spoilt child, my father married ambitiously, and almost
forgot<br>
 me, after making me his idol and bringing me up like a
queen's<br>
 daughter! My poor mother, who filled my head with splendid
visions,<br>
 died of grief at seeing me married to an office clerk with
twelve<br>
 hundred francs a year, at nine-and-thirty an aged and
hardened<br>
 libertine, as corrupt as the hulks, looking on me, as others
looked on<br>
 you, as a means of fortune!--Well, in that wretched man, I have
found<br>
 the best of husbands. He prefers the squalid sluts he picks up
at the<br>
 street corners, and leaves me free. Though he keeps all his
salary to<br>
 himself, he never asks me where I get money to live on----"</p>

<p>And she in her turn stopped short, as a woman does who feels
herself<br>
 carried away by the torrent of her confessions; struck, too,
by<br>
 Lisbeth's eager attention, she thought well to make sure of
Lisbeth<br>
 before revealing her last secrets.</p>

<p>"You see, dear child, how entire is my confidence in you!"
she<br>
 presently added, to which Lisbeth replied by a most comforting
nod.</p>

<p>An oath may be taken by a look and a nod more solemnly than in
a court<br>
 of justice.</p>

<p>"I keep up every appearance of respectability," Valerie went
on,<br>
 laying her hand on Lisbeth's as if to accept her pledge. "I am
a<br>
 married woman, and my own mistress, to such a degree, that in
the<br>
 morning, when Marneffe sets out for the office, if he takes it
into<br>
 his head to say good-bye and finds my door locked, he goes off
without<br>
 a word. He cares less for his boy than I care for one of the
marble<br>
 children that play at the feet of one of the river-gods in
the<br>
 Tuileries. If I do not come home to dinner, he dines quite
contentedly<br>
 with the maid, for the maid is devoted to monsieur; and he goes
out<br>
 every evening after dinner, and does not come in till twelve or
one<br>
 o'clock. Unfortunately, for a year past, I have had no ladies'
maid,<br>
 which is as much as to say that I am a widow!</p>

<p>"I have had one passion, once have been happy--a rich
Brazilian--who<br>
 went away a year ago--my only lapse!--He went away to sell
his<br>
 estates, to realize his land, and come back to live in France.
What<br>
 will he find left of his Valerie? A dunghill. Well! it is his
fault<br>
 and not mine; why does he delay coming so long? Perhaps he has
been<br>
 wrecked--like my virtue."</p>

<p>"Good-bye, my dear," said Lisbeth abruptly; "we are friends
for ever.<br>
 I love you, I esteem you, I am wholly yours! My cousin is
tormenting<br>
 me to go and live in the house you are moving to, in the Rue
Vanneau;<br>
 but I would not go, for I saw at once the reasons for this fresh
piece<br>
 of kindness----"</p>

<p>"Yes; you would have kept an eye on me, I know!" said Madame
Marneffe.</p>

<p>"That was, no doubt, the motive of his generosity," replied
Lisbeth.<br>
 "In Paris, most beneficence is a speculation, as most acts
of<br>
 ingratitude are revenge! To a poor relation you behave as you do
to<br>
 rats to whom you offer a bit of bacon. Now, I will accept the
Baron's<br>
 offer, for this house has grown intolerable to me. You and I
have wit<br>
 enough to hold our tongues about everything that would damage
us, and<br>
 tell all that needs telling. So, no blabbing--and we are
friends."</p>

<p>"Through thick and thin!" cried Madame Marneffe, delighted to
have a<br>
 sheep-dog, a confidante, a sort of respectable aunt. "Listen to
me;<br>
 the Baron is doing a great deal in the Rue Vanneau----"</p>

<p>"I believe you!" interrupted Lisbeth. "He has spent thirty
thousand<br>
 francs! Where he got the money, I am sure I don't know, for
Josepha<br>
 the singer bled him dry.--Oh! you are in luck," she went on.
"The<br>
 Baron would steal for a woman who held his heart in two little
white<br>
 satin hands like yours!"</p>

<p>"Well, then," said Madame Marneffe, with the liberality of
such<br>
 creatures, which is mere recklessness, "look here, my dear
child; take<br>
 away from here everything that may serve your turn in your
new<br>
 quarters--that chest of drawers, that wardrobe and mirror, the
carpet,<br>
 the curtains----"</p>

<p>Lisbeth's eyes dilated with excessive joy; she was incredulous
of such<br>
 a gift.</p>

<p>"You are doing more for me in a breath than my rich relations
have<br>
 done in thirty years!" she exclaimed. "They have never even
asked<br>
 themselves whether I had any furniture at all. On his first
visit, a<br>
 few weeks ago, the Baron made a rich man's face on seeing how
poor I<br>
 was.--Thank you, my dear; and I will give you your money's
worth, you<br>
 will see how by and by."</p>

<p>Valerie went out on the landing with <i>her</i> Cousin Betty,
and the two<br>
 women embraced.</p>

<p>"Pouh! How she stinks of hard work!" said the pretty little
woman to<br>
 herself when she was alone. "I shall not embrace you often, my
dear<br>
 cousin! At the same time, I must look sharp. She must be
skilfully<br>
 managed, for she can be of use, and help me to make my
fortune."</p>

<p>Like the true Creole of Paris, Madame Marneffe abhorred
trouble; she<br>
 had the calm indifference of a cat, which never jumps or runs
but when<br>
 urged by necessity. To her, life must be all pleasure; and
the<br>
 pleasure without difficulties. She loved flowers, provided they
were<br>
 brought to her. She could not imagine going to the play but to a
good<br>
 box, at her own command, and in a carriage to take her there.
Valerie<br>
 inherited these courtesan tastes from her mother, on whom
General<br>
 Montcornet had lavished luxury when he was in Paris, and who
for<br>
 twenty years had seen all the world at her feet; who had been
wasteful<br>
 and prodigal, squandering her all in the luxurious living of
which the<br>
 programme has been lost since the fall of Napoleon.</p>

<p>The grandees of the Empire were a match in their follies for
the great<br>
 nobles of the last century. Under the Restoration the nobility
cannot<br>
 forget that it has been beaten and robbed, and so, with two or
three<br>
 exceptions, it has become thrifty, prudent, and stay-at-home,
in<br>
 short, bourgeois and penurious. Since then, 1830 has crowned the
work<br>
 of 1793. In France, henceforth, there will be great names, but
no<br>
 great houses, unless there should be political changes which we
can<br>
 hardly foresee. Everything takes the stamp of individuality.
The<br>
 wisest invest in annuities. Family pride is destroyed.</p>

<p>The bitter pressure of poverty which had stung Valerie to the
quick on<br>
 the day when, to use Marneffe's expression, she had "caught on"
with<br>
 Hulot, had brought the young woman to the conclusion that she
would<br>
 make a fortune by means of her good looks. So, for some days,
she had<br>
 been feeling the need of having a friend about her to take the
place<br>
 of a mother--a devoted friend, to whom such things may be told
as must<br>
 be hidden from a waiting-maid, and who could act, come and go,
and<br>
 think for her, a beast of burden resigned to an unequal share of
life.<br>
 Now, she, quite as keenly as Lisbeth, had understood the
Baron's<br>
 motives for fostering the intimacy between his cousin and
herself.</p>

<p>Prompted by the formidable perspicacity of the Parisian
half-breed,<br>
 who spends her days stretched on a sofa, turning the lantern of
her<br>
 detective spirit on the obscurest depths of souls, sentiments,
and<br>
 intrigues, she had decided on making an ally of the spy.
This<br>
 supremely rash step was, perhaps premeditated; she had discerned
the<br>
 true nature of this ardent creature, burning with wasted
passion, and<br>
 meant to attach her to herself. Thus, their conversation was
like the<br>
 stone a traveler casts into an abyss to demonstrate its depth.
And<br>
 Madame Marneffe had been terrified to find this old maid a
combination<br>
 of Iago and Richard III., so feeble as she seemed, so humble,
and so<br>
 little to be feared.</p>

<p>For that instant, Lisbeth Fischer had been her real self;
that<br>
 Corsican and savage temperament, bursting the slender bonds that
held<br>
 it under, had sprung up to its terrible height, as the branch of
a<br>
 tree flies up from the hand of a child that has bent it down to
gather<br>
 the green fruit.</p>

<p>To those who study the social world, it must always be a
matter of<br>
 astonishment to see the fulness, the perfection, and the
rapidity with<br>
 which an idea develops in a virgin nature.</p>

<p>Virginity, like every other monstrosity, has its special
richness, its<br>
 absorbing greatness. Life, whose forces are always economized,
assumes<br>
 in the virgin creature an incalculable power of resistance
and<br>
 endurance. The brain is reinforced in the sum-total of its
reserved<br>
 energy. When really chaste natures need to call on the resources
of<br>
 body or soul, and are required to act or to think, they have
muscles<br>
 of steel, or intuitive knowledge in their
intelligence--diabolical<br>
 strength, or the black magic of the Will.</p>

<p>From this point of view the Virgin Mary, even if we regard her
only as<br>
 a symbol, is supremely great above every other type, whether
Hindoo,<br>
 Egyptian, or Greek. Virginity, the mother of great things,
<i>magna</i><br>
 <i>parens rerum</i>, holds in her fair white hands the keys of
the upper<br>
 worlds. In short, that grand and terrible exception deserves all
the<br>
 honors decreed to her by the Catholic Church.</p>

<p>Thus, in one moment, Lisbeth Fischer had become the Mohican
whose<br>
 snares none can escape, whose dissimulation is inscrutable,
whose<br>
 swift decisiveness is the outcome of the incredible perfection
of<br>
 every organ of sense. She was Hatred and Revenge, as implacable
as<br>
 they are in Italy, Spain, and the East. These two feelings,
the<br>
 obverse of friendship and love carried to the utmost, are known
only<br>
 in lands scorched by the sun. But Lisbeth was also a daughter
of<br>
 Lorraine, bent on deceit.</p>

<p>She accepted this detail of her part against her will; she
began by<br>
 making a curious attempt, due to her ignorance. She fancied,
as<br>
 children do, that being imprisoned meant the same thing as
solitary<br>
 confinement. But this is the superlative degree of imprisonment,
and<br>
 that superlative is the privilege of the Criminal Bench.</p>

<p>As soon as she left Madame Marneffe, Lisbeth hurried off to
Monsieur<br>
 Rivet, and found him in his office.</p>

<p>"Well, my dear Monsieur Rivet," she began, when she had bolted
the<br>
 door of the room. "You were quite right. Those Poles! They are
low<br>
 villains--all alike, men who know neither law nor fidelity."</p>

<p>"And who want to set Europe on fire," said the peaceable
Rivet, "to<br>
 ruin every trade and every trader for the sake of a country that
is<br>
 all bog-land, they say, and full of horrible Jews, to say
nothing of<br>
 the Cossacks and the peasants--a sort of wild beasts classed
by<br>
 mistake with human beings. Your Poles do not understand the
times we<br>
 live in; we are no longer barbarians. War is coming to an end,
my dear<br>
 mademoiselle; it went out with the Monarchy. This is the age
of<br>
 triumph for commerce, and industry, and middle-class prudence,
such as<br>
 were the making of Holland.</p>

<p>"Yes," he went on with animation, "we live in a period when
nations<br>
 must obtain all they need by the legal extension of their
liberties<br>
 and by the pacific action of Constitutional Institutions; that
is what<br>
 the Poles do not see, and I hope----</p>

<p>"You were saying, my dear?--" he added, interrupting himself
when he<br>
 saw from his work-woman's face that high politics were beyond
her<br>
 comprehension.</p>

<p>"Here is the schedule," said Lisbeth. "If I don't want to lose
my<br>
 three thousand two hundred and ten francs, I must clap this
rogue into<br>
 prison."</p>

<p>"Didn't I tell you so?" cried the oracle of the Saint-Denis
quarter.</p>

<p>The Rivets, successor to Pons Brothers, had kept their shop
still in<br>
 the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, in the ancient Hotel Langeais,
built by<br>
 that illustrious family at the time when the nobility still
gathered<br>
 round the Louvre.</p>

<p>"Yes, and I blessed you on my way here," replied Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"If he suspects nothing, he can be safe in prison by eight
o'clock in<br>
 the morning," said Rivet, consulting the almanac to ascertain
the hour<br>
 of sunrise; "but not till the day after to-morrow, for he cannot
be<br>
 imprisoned till he has had notice that he is to be arrested by
writ,<br>
 with the option of payment or imprisonment. And so----"</p>

<p>"What an idiotic law!" exclaimed Lisbeth. "Of course the
debtor<br>
 escapes."</p>

<p>"He has every right to do so," said the Assessor, smiling. "So
this is<br>
 the way----"</p>

<p>"As to that," said Lisbeth, interrupting him, "I will take the
paper<br>
 and hand it to him, saying that I have been obliged to raise
the<br>
 money, and that the lender insists on this formality. I know
my<br>
 gentleman. He will not even look at the paper; he will light his
pipe<br>
 with it."</p>

<p>"Not a bad idea, not bad, Mademoiselle Fischer! Well, make
your mind<br>
 easy; the job shall be done.--But stop a minute; to put your man
in<br>
 prison is not the only point to be considered; you only want
to<br>
 indulge in that legal luxury in order to get your money. Who is
to pay<br>
 you?"</p>

<p>"Those who give him money."</p>

<p>"To be sure; I forgot that the Minister of War had
commissioned him to<br>
 erect a monument to one of our late customers. Ah! the house
has<br>
 supplied many an uniform to General Montcornet; he soon
blackened them<br>
 with the smoke of cannon. A brave man, he was! and he paid on
the<br>
 nail."</p>

<p>A marshal of France may have saved the Emperor or his country;
"He<br>
 paid on the nail" will always be the highest praise he can have
from a<br>
 tradesman.</p>

<p>"Very well. And on Saturday, Monsieur Rivet, you shall have
the flat<br>
 tassels.--By the way, I am moving from the Rue du Doyenne; I am
going<br>
 to live in the Rue Vanneau."</p>

<p>"You are very right. I could not bear to see you in that hole
which,<br>
 in spite of my aversion to the Opposition, I must say is a
disgrace; I<br>
 repeat it, yes! is a disgrace to the Louvre and the Place du<br>
 Carrousel. I am devoted to Louis-Philippe, he is my idol; he is
the<br>
 august and exact representative of the class on whom he founded
his<br>
 dynasty, and I can never forget what he did for the
trimming-makers by<br>
 restoring the National Guard----"</p>

<p>"When I hear you speak so, Monsieur Rivet, I cannot help
wondering why<br>
 you are not made a deputy."</p>

<p>"They are afraid of my attachment to the dynasty," replied
Rivet. "My<br>
 political enemies are the King's. He has a noble character! They
are a<br>
 fine family; in short," said he, returning to the charge, "he is
our<br>
 ideal: morality, economy, everything. But the completion of the
Louvre<br>
 is one of the conditions on which we gave him the crown, and the
civil<br>
 list, which, I admit, had no limits set to it, leaves the heart
of<br>
 Paris in a most melancholy state.--It is because I am so
strongly in<br>
 favor of the middle course that I should like to see the middle
of<br>
 Paris in a better condition. Your part of the town is
positively<br>
 terrifying. You would have been murdered there one fine
day.--And so<br>
 your Monsieur Crevel has been made Major of his division! He
will come<br>
 to us, I hope, for his big epaulette."</p>

<p>"I am dining with him to-night, and will send him to you."</p>

<p>Lisbeth believed that she had secured her Livonian to herself
by<br>
 cutting him off from all communication with the outer world. If
he<br>
 could no longer work, the artist would be forgotten as
completely as a<br>
 man buried in a cellar, where she alone would go to see him.
Thus she<br>
 had two happy days, for she hoped to deal a mortal blow at
the<br>
 Baroness and her daughter.</p>

<p>To go to Crevel's house, in the Rue des Saussayes, she crossed
the<br>
 Pont du Carrousel, went along the Quai Voltaire, the Quai
d'Orsay, the<br>
 Rue Bellechasse, Rue de l'Universite, the Pont de la Concorde,
and the<br>
 Avenue de Marigny. This illogical route was traced by the logic
of<br>
 passion, always the foe of the legs.</p>

<p>Cousin Betty, as long as she followed the line of the quays,
kept<br>
 watch on the opposite shore of the Seine, walking very slowly.
She had<br>
 guessed rightly. She had left Wenceslas dressing; she at
once<br>
 understood that, as soon as he should be rid of her, the lover
would<br>
 go off to the Baroness' by the shortest road. And, in fact, as
she<br>
 wandered along by the parapet of the Quai Voltaire, in fancy<br>
 suppressing the river and walking along the opposite bank,
she<br>
 recognized the artist as he came out of the Tuileries to cross
the<br>
 Pont Royal. She there came up with the faithless one, and could
follow<br>
 him unseen, for lovers rarely look behind them. She escorted him
as<br>
 far as Madame Hulot's house, where he went in like an
accustomed<br>
 visitor.</p>

<p>This crowning proof, confirming Madame Marneffe's revelations,
put<br>
 Lisbeth quite beside herself.</p>

<p>She arrived at the newly promoted Major's door in the state of
mental<br>
 irritation which prompts men to commit murder, and found
Monsieur<br>
 Crevel <i>senior</i> in his drawing-room awaiting his children,
Monsieur<br>
 and Madame Hulot <i>junior</i>.</p>

<p>But Celestin Crevel was so unconscious and so perfect a type
of the<br>
 Parisian parvenu, that we can scarcely venture so
unceremoniously into<br>
 the presence of Cesar Birotteau's successor. Celestin Crevel was
a<br>
 world in himself; and he, even more than Rivet, deserves the
honors of<br>
 the palette by reason of his importance in this domestic
drama.</p>

<p>Have you ever observed how in childhood, or at the early
stages of<br>
 social life, we create a model for our own imitation, with our
own<br>
 hands as it were, and often without knowing it? The banker's
clerk,<br>
 for instance, as he enters his master's drawing-room, dreams
of<br>
 possessing such another. If he makes a fortune, it will not be
the<br>
 luxury of the day, twenty years later, that you will find in
his<br>
 house, but the old-fashioned splendor that fascinated him of
yore. It<br>
 is impossible to tell how many absurdities are due to this<br>
 retrospective jealousy; and in the same way we know nothing of
the<br>
 follies due to the covert rivalry that urges men to copy the
type they<br>
 have set themselves, and exhaust their powers in shining with
a<br>
 reflected light, like the moon.</p>

<p>Crevel was deputy mayor because his predecessor had been; he
was Major<br>
 because he coveted Cesar Birotteau's epaulettes. In the same
way,<br>
 struck by the marvels wrought by Grindot the architect, at the
time<br>
 when Fortune had carried his master to the top of the wheel,
Crevel<br>
 had "never looked at both sides of a crown-piece," to use his
own<br>
 language, when he wanted to "do up" his rooms; he had gone with
his<br>
 purse open and his eyes shut to Grindot, who by this time was
quite<br>
 forgotten. It is impossible to guess how long an extinct
reputation<br>
 may survive, supported by such stale admiration.</p>

<p>So Grindot, for the thousandth time had displayed his
white-and-gold<br>
 drawing-room paneled with crimson damask. The furniture, of
rosewood,<br>
 clumsily carved, as such work is done for the trade, had in
the<br>
 country been the source of just pride in Paris workmanship on
the<br>
 occasion of an industrial exhibition. The candelabra, the
fire-dogs,<br>
 the fender, the chandelier, the clock, were all in the most
unmeaning<br>
 style of scroll-work; the round table, a fixture in the middle
of the<br>
 room, was a mosaic of fragments of Italian and antique
marbles,<br>
 brought from Rome, where these dissected maps are made of<br>
 mineralogical specimens--for all the world like tailors'
patterns--an<br>
 object of perennial admiration to Crevel's citizen friends.
The<br>
 portraits of the late lamented Madame Crevel, of Crevel himself,
of<br>
 his daughter and his son-in-law, hung on the walls, two and two;
they<br>
 were the work of Pierre Grassou, the favored painter of the<br>
 bourgeoisie, to whom Crevel owed his ridiculous Byronic
attitude. The<br>
 frames, costing a thousand francs each, were quite in harmony
with<br>
 this coffee-house magnificence, which would have made any true
artist<br>
 shrug his shoulders.</p>

<p><br>
 Money never yet missed the smallest opportunity of being stupid.
We<br>
 should have in Paris ten Venices if our retired merchants had
had the<br>
 instinct for fine things characteristic of the Italians. Even in
our<br>
 own day a Milanese merchant could leave five hundred thousand
francs<br>
 to the Duomo, to regild the colossal statue of the Virgin that
crowns<br>
 the edifice. Canova, in his will, desired his brother to build
a<br>
 church costing four million francs, and that brother adds
something on<br>
 his own account. Would a citizen of Paris--and they all, like
Rivet,<br>
 love their Paris in their heart--ever dream of building the
spires<br>
 that are lacking to the towers of Notre-Dame? And only think of
the<br>
 sums that revert to the State in property for which no heirs
are<br>
 found.</p>

<p>All the improvements of Paris might have been completed with
the money<br>
 spent on stucco castings, gilt mouldings, and sham sculpture
during<br>
 the last fifteen years by individuals of the Crevel stamp.</p>

<p>Beyond this drawing-room was a splendid boudoir furnished with
tables<br>
 and cabinets in imitation of Boulle.</p>

<p>The bedroom, smart with chintz, also opened out of the
drawing-room.<br>
 Mahogany in all its glory infested the dining-room, and Swiss
views,<br>
 gorgeously framed, graced the panels. Crevel, who hoped to
travel in<br>
 Switzerland, had set his heart on possessing the scenery in
painting<br>
 till the time should come when he might see it in reality.</p>

<p>So, as will have been seen, Crevel, the Mayor's deputy, of the
Legion<br>
 of Honor and of the National Guard, had faithfully reproduced
all the<br>
 magnificence, even as to furniture, of his luckless predecessor.
Under<br>
 the Restoration, where one had sunk, this other, quite
overlooked, had<br>
 come to the top--not by any strange stroke of fortune, but by
the<br>
 force of circumstance. In revolutions, as in storms at sea,
solid<br>
 treasure goes to the bottom, and light trifles are floated to
the<br>
 surface. Cesar Birotteau, a Royalist, in favor and envied, had
been<br>
 made the mark of bourgeois hostility, while bourgeoisie
triumphant<br>
 found its incarnation in Crevel.</p>

<p>This apartment, at a rent of a thousand crowns, crammed with
all the<br>
 vulgar magnificence that money can buy, occupied the first floor
of a<br>
 fine old house between a courtyard and a garden. Everything was
as<br>
 spick-and-span as the beetles in an entomological case, for
Crevel<br>
 lived very little at home.</p>

<p>This gorgeous residence was the ambitious citizen's legal
domicile.<br>
 His establishment consisted of a woman-cook and a valet; he
hired two<br>
 extra men, and had a dinner sent in by Chevet, whenever he gave
a<br>
 banquet to his political friends, to men he wanted to dazzle or
to a<br>
 family party.</p>

<p>The seat of Crevel's real domesticity, formerly in the Rue
Notre-Dame<br>
 de Lorette, with Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout, had lately
been<br>
 transferred, as we have seen, to the Rue Chauchat. Every morning
the<br>
 retired merchant--every ex-tradesman is a retired
merchant--spent two<br>
 hours in the Rue des Saussayes to attend to business, and gave
the<br>
 rest of his time to Mademoiselle Zaire, which annoyed Zaire very
much.<br>
 Orosmanes-Crevel had a fixed bargain with Mademoiselle Heloise;
she<br>
 owed him five hundred francs worth of enjoyment every month, and
no<br>
 "bills delivered." He paid separately for his dinner and all
extras.<br>
 This agreement, with certain bonuses, for he made her a good
many<br>
 presents, seemed cheap to the ex-attache of the great singer;
and he<br>
 would say to widowers who were fond of their daughters, that it
paid<br>
 better to job your horses than to have a stable of your own. At
the<br>
 same time, if the reader remembers the speech made to the Baron
by the<br>
 porter at the Rue Chauchat, Crevel did not escape the coachman
and the<br>
 groom.</p>

<p>Crevel, as may be seen, had turned his passionate affection
for his<br>
 daughter to the advantage of his self-indulgence. The immoral
aspect<br>
 of the situation was justified by the highest morality. And then
the<br>
 ex-perfumer derived from this style of living--it was the
inevitable,<br>
 a free-and-easy life, <i>Regence, Pompadour, Marechal de
Richelieu</i>,<br>
 what not--a certain veneer of superiority. Crevel set up for
being a<br>
 man of broad views, a fine gentleman with an air and grace, a
liberal<br>
 man with nothing narrow in his ideas--and all for the small sum
of<br>
 about twelve to fifteen hundred francs a month. This was the
result<br>
 not of hypocritical policy, but of middle-class vanity, though
it came<br>
 to the same in the end.</p>

<p>On the Bourse Crevel was regarded as a man superior to his
time, and<br>
 especially as a man of pleasure, a <i>bon vivant</i>. In this
particular<br>
 Crevel flattered himself that he had overtopped his worthy
friend<br>
 Birotteau by a hundred cubits.</p>

<p>"And is it you?" cried Crevel, flying into a rage as he saw
Lisbeth<br>
 enter the room, "who have plotted this marriage between
Mademoiselle<br>
 Hulot and your young Count, whom you have been bringing up by
hand for<br>
 her?"</p>

<p>"You don't seem best pleased at it?" said Lisbeth, fixing a
piercing<br>
 eye on Crevel. "What interest can you have in hindering my
cousin's<br>
 marriage? For it was you, I am told, who hindered her
marrying<br>
 Monsieur Lebas' son."</p>

<p>"You are a good soul and to be trusted," said Crevel. "Well,
then, do<br>
 you suppose that I will ever forgive Monsieur Hulot for the
crime of<br>
 having robbed me of Josepha--especially when he turned a decent
girl,<br>
 whom I should have married in my old age, into a
good-for-nothing<br>
 slut, a mountebank, an opera singer!--No, no. Never!"</p>

<p>"He is a very good fellow, too, is Monsieur Hulot," said
Cousin Betty.</p>

<p>"Amiable, very amiable--too amiable," replied Crevel. "I wish
him no<br>
 harm; but I do wish to have my revenge, and I will have it. It
is my<br>
 one idea."</p>

<p>"And is that desire the reason why you no longer visit Madame
Hulot?"</p>

<p>"Possibly."</p>

<p>"Ah, ha! then you were courting my fair cousin?" said Lisbeth,
with a<br>
 smile. "I thought as much."</p>

<p>"And she treated me like a dog!--worse, like a footman; nay, I
might<br>
 say like a political prisoner.--But I will succeed yet," said
he,<br>
 striking his brow with his clenched fist.</p>

<p>"Poor man! It would be dreadful to catch his wife deceiving
him after<br>
 being packed off by his mistress."</p>

<p>"Josepha?" cried Crevel. "Has Josepha thrown him over, packed
him off,<br>
 turned him out neck and crop? Bravo, Josepha, you have avenged
me! I<br>
 will send you a pair of pearls to hang in your ears, my
ex-sweetheart!<br>
 --I knew nothing of it; for after I had seen you, on the day
after<br>
 that when the fair Adeline had shown me the door, I went back to
visit<br>
 the Lebas, at Corbeil, and have but just come back. Heloise
played the<br>
 very devil to get me into the country, and I have found out
the<br>
 purpose of her game; she wanted me out of the way while she gave
a<br>
 house-warming in the Rue Chauchat, with some artists, and
players, and<br>
 writers.--She took me in! But I can forgive her, for Heloise
amuses<br>
 me. She is a Dejazet under a bushel. What a character the hussy
is!<br>
 There is the note I found last evening:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>" 'DEAR OLD CHAP,--I have pitched my tent in the Rue Chauchat.
I<br>
 have taken the precaution of getting a few friends to clean up
the<br>
 paint. All is well. Come when you please, monsieur; Hagar
awaits<br>
 her Abraham.'</p>
</blockquote>

<p>"Heloise will have some news for me, for she has her bohemia
at her<br>
 fingers' end."</p>

<p>"But Monsieur Hulot took the disaster very calmly," said
Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Impossible!" cried Crevel, stopping in a parade as regular as
the<br>
 swing of a pendulum.</p>

<p>"Monsieur Hulot is not as young as he was," Lisbeth
remarked<br>
 significantly.</p>

<p><br>
 "I know that," said Crevel, "but in one point we are alike:
Hulot<br>
 cannot do without an attachment. He is capable of going back to
his<br>
 wife. It would be a novelty for him, but an end to my vengeance.
You<br>
 smile, Mademoiselle Fischer--ah! perhaps you know
something?"</p>

<p>"I am smiling at your notions," replied Lisbeth. "Yes, my
cousin is<br>
 still handsome enough to inspire a passion. I should certainly
fall in<br>
 love with her if I were a man."</p>

<p>"Cut and come again!" exclaimed Crevel. "You are laughing at
me.--The<br>
 Baron has already found consolation?"</p>

<p>Lisbeth bowed affirmatively.</p>

<p>"He is a lucky man if he can find a second Josepha within
twenty-four<br>
 hours!" said Crevel. "But I am not altogether surprised, for he
told<br>
 me one evening at supper that when he was a young man he always
had<br>
 three mistresses on hand that he might not be left high and
dry--the<br>
 one he was giving over, the one in possession, and the one he
was<br>
 courting for a future emergency. He had some smart little
work-woman<br>
 in reserve, no doubt--in his fish-pond--his
<i>Parc-aux-cerfs</i>! He is<br>
 very Louis XV., is my gentleman. He is in luck to be so
handsome!--<br>
 However, he is ageing; his face shows it.--He has taken up with
some<br>
 little milliner?"</p>

<p>"Dear me, no," replied Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Oh!" cried Crevel, "what would I not do to hinder him from
hanging up<br>
 his hat! I could not win back Josepha; women of that kind never
come<br>
 back to their first love.--Besides, it is truly said, such a
return is<br>
 not love.--But, Cousin Betty, I would pay down fifty thousand
francs--<br>
 that is to say, I would spend it--to rob that great
good-looking<br>
 fellow of his mistress, and to show him that a Major with a
portly<br>
 stomach and a brain made to become Mayor of Paris, though he is
a<br>
 grandfather, is not to have his mistress tickled away by a
poacher<br>
 without turning the tables."</p>

<p>"My position," said Lisbeth, "compels me to hear everything
and know<br>
 nothing. You may talk to me without fear; I never repeat a word
of<br>
 what any one may choose to tell me. How can you suppose I should
ever<br>
 break that rule of conduct? No one would ever trust me
again."</p>

<p>"I know," said Crevel; "you are the very jewel of old maids.
Still,<br>
 come, there are exceptions. Look here, the family have never
settled<br>
 an allowance on you?"</p>

<p>"But I have my pride," said Lisbeth. "I do not choose to be an
expense<br>
 to anybody."</p>

<p>"If you will but help me to my revenge," the tradesman went
on, "I<br>
 will sink ten thousand francs in an annuity for you. Tell me, my
fair<br>
 cousin, tell me who has stepped into Josepha's shoes, and you
will<br>
 have money to pay your rent, your little breakfast in the
morning, the<br>
 good coffee you love so well--you might allow yourself pure
Mocha,<br>
 heh! And a very good thing is pure Mocha!"</p>

<p>"I do not care so much for the ten thousand francs in an
annuity,<br>
 which would bring me nearly five hundred francs a year, as
for<br>
 absolute secrecy," said Lisbeth. "For, you see, my dear
Monsieur<br>
 Crevel, the Baron is very good to me; he is to pay my
rent----"</p>

<p>"Oh yes, long may that last! I advise you to trust him," cried
Crevel.<br>
 "Where will he find the money?"</p>

<p>"Ah, that I don't know. At the same time, he is spending more
than<br>
 thirty thousand francs on the rooms he is furnishing for this
little<br>
 lady."</p>

<p>"A lady! What, a woman in society; the rascal, what luck he
has! He is<br>
 the only favorite!"</p>

<p>"A married woman, and quite the lady," Lisbeth affirmed.</p>

<p>"Really and truly?" cried Crevel, opening wide eyes flashing
with<br>
 envy, quite as much as at the magic words <i>quite the
lady</i>.</p>

<p>"Yes, really," said Lisbeth. "Clever, a musician,
three-and-twenty, a<br>
 pretty, innocent face, a dazzling white skin, teeth like a
puppy's,<br>
 eyes like stars, a beautiful forehead--and tiny feet, I never
saw the<br>
 like, they are not wider than her stay-busk."</p>

<p>"And ears?" asked Crevel, keenly alive to this catalogue of
charms.</p>

<p>"Ears for a model," she replied.</p>

<p>"And small hands?"</p>

<p>"I tell you, in few words, a gem of a woman--and high-minded,
and<br>
 modest, and refined! A beautiful soul, an angel--and with
every<br>
 distinction, for her father was a Marshal of France----"</p>

<p>"A Marshal of France!" shrieked Crevel, positively bounding
with<br>
 excitement. "Good Heavens! by the Holy Piper! By all the joys
in<br>
 Paradise!--The rascal!--I beg your pardon, Cousin, I am going
crazy!--<br>
 I think I would give a hundred thousand francs----"</p>

<p>"I dare say you would, and, I tell you, she is a respectable
woman--a<br>
 woman of virtue. The Baron has forked out handsomely."</p>

<p>"He has not a sou, I tell you."</p>

<p>"There is a husband he has pushed----"</p>

<p>"Where did he push him?" asked Crevel, with a bitter
laugh.</p>

<p>"He is promoted to be second in his office--this husband who
will<br>
 oblige, no doubt;--and his name is down for the Cross of the
Legion of<br>
 Honor."</p>

<p>"The Government ought to be judicious and respect those who
have the<br>
 Cross by not flinging it broadcast," said Crevel, with the look
of an<br>
 aggrieved politician. "But what is there about the man--that
old<br>
 bulldog of a Baron?" he went on. "It seems to me that I am quite
a<br>
 match for him," and he struck an attitude as he looked at
himself in<br>
 the glass. "Heloise has told me many a time, at moments when a
woman<br>
 speaks the truth, that I was wonderful."</p>

<p>"Oh," said Lisbeth, "women like big men; they are almost
always good-<br>
 natured; and if I had to decide between you and the Baron, I
should<br>
 choose you. Monsieur Hulot is amusing, handsome, and has a
figure; but<br>
 you, you are substantial, and then--you see--you look an even
greater<br>
 scamp than he does."</p>

<p>"It is incredible how all women, even pious women, take to men
who<br>
 have that about them!" exclaimed Crevel, putting his arm
round<br>
 Lisbeth's waist, he was so jubilant.</p>

<p>"The difficulty does not lie there," said Betty. "You must see
that a<br>
 woman who is getting so many advantages will not be unfaithful
to her<br>
 patron for nothing; and it would cost you more than a hundred
odd<br>
 thousand francs, for our little friend can look forward to
seeing her<br>
 husband at the head of his office within two years' time.--It
is<br>
 poverty that is dragging the poor little angel into that
pit."</p>

<p>Crevel was striding up and down the drawing-room in a state of
frenzy.</p>

<p>"He must be uncommonly fond of the woman?" he inquired after a
pause,<br>
 while his desires, thus goaded by Lisbeth, rose to a sort of
madness.</p>

<p>"You may judge for yourself," replied Lisbeth. I don't believe
he has<br>
 had <i>that</i> of her," said she, snapping her thumbnail
against one of<br>
 her enormous white teeth, "and he has given her ten thousand
francs'<br>
 worth of presents already."</p>

<p>"What a good joke it would be!" cried Crevel, "if I got to the
winning<br>
 post first!"</p>

<p>"Good heavens! It is too bad of me to be telling you all this
tittle-<br>
 tattle," said Lisbeth, with an air of compunction.</p>

<p>"No.--I mean to put your relations to the blush. To-morrow I
shall<br>
 invest in your name such a sum in five-per-cents as will give
you six<br>
 hundred francs a year; but then you must tell me
everything--his<br>
 Dulcinea's name and residence. To you I will make a clean breast
of<br>
 it.--I never have had a real lady for a mistress, and it is the
height<br>
 of my ambition. Mahomet's houris are nothing in comparison with
what I<br>
 fancy a woman of fashion must be. In short, it is my dream, my
mania,<br>
 and to such a point, that I declare to you the Baroness Hulot to
me<br>
 will never be fifty," said he, unconsciously plagiarizing one of
the<br>
 greatest wits of the last century. "I assure you, my good
Lisbeth, I<br>
 am prepared to sacrifice a hundred, two hundred--Hush! Here are
the<br>
 young people, I see them crossing the courtyard. I shall never
have<br>
 learned anything through you, I give you my word of honor; for I
do<br>
 not want you to lose the Baron's confidence, quite the contrary.
He<br>
 must be amazingly fond of this woman--that old boy."</p>

<p>"He is crazy about her," said Lisbeth. "He could not find
forty<br>
 thousand francs to marry his daughter off, but he has got them
somehow<br>
 for his new passion."</p>

<p>"And do you think that she loves him?"</p>

<p>"At his age!" said the old maid.</p>

<p>"Oh, what an owl I am!" cried Crevel, "when I myself allowed
Heloise<br>
 to keep her artist exactly as Henri IX. allowed Gabrielle
her<br>
 Bellegrade. Alas! old age, old age!--Good-morning, Celestine.
How do,<br>
 my jewel!--And the brat? Ah! here he comes; on my honor, he
is<br>
 beginning to be like me!--Good-day, Hulot--quite well? We shall
soon<br>
 be having another wedding in the family."</p>

<p>Celestine and her husband, as a hint to their father, glanced
at the<br>
 old maid, who audaciously asked, in reply to Crevel:</p>

<p>"Indeed--whose?"</p>

<p>Crevel put on an air of reserve which was meant to convey that
he<br>
 would make up for her indiscretions.</p>

<p>"That of Hortense," he replied; "but it is not yet quite
settled. I<br>
 have just come from the Lebas', and they were talking of
Mademoiselle<br>
 Popinot as a suitable match for their son, the young councillor,
for<br>
 he would like to get the presidency of a provincial court.--Now,
come<br>
 to dinner."</p>

<p>By seven o'clock Lisbeth had returned home in an omnibus, for
she was<br>
 eager to see Wenceslas, whose dupe she had been for three weeks,
and<br>
 to whom she was carrying a basket filled with fruit by the hands
of<br>
 Crevel himself, whose attentions were doubled towards <i>his</i>
Cousin<br>
 Betty.</p>

<p>She flew up to the attic at a pace that took her breath away,
and<br>
 found the artist finishing the ornamentation of a box to be
presented<br>
 to the adored Hortense. The framework of the lid represented<br>
 hydrangeas--in French called <i>Hortensias</i>--among which
little Loves<br>
 were playing. The poor lover, to enable him to pay for the
materials<br>
 of the box, of which the panels were of malachite, had designed
two<br>
 candlesticks for Florent and Chanor, and sold them the
copyright--two<br>
 admirable pieces of work.</p>

<p>"You have been working too hard these last few days, my dear
fellow,"<br>
 said Lisbeth, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and giving
him a<br>
 kiss. "Such laborious diligence is really dangerous in the month
of<br>
 August. Seriously, you may injure your health. Look, here are
some<br>
 peaches and plums from Monsieur Crevel.--Now, do not worry
yourself so<br>
 much; I have borrowed two thousand francs, and, short of
some<br>
 disaster, we can repay them when you sell your clock. At the
same<br>
 time, the lender seems to me suspicious, for he has just sent in
this<br>
 document."</p>

<p>She laid the writ under the model sketch of the statue of
General<br>
 Montcornet.</p>

<p>"For whom are you making this pretty thing?" said she, taking
up the<br>
 model sprays of hydrangea in red wax which Wenceslas had laid
down<br>
 while eating the fruit.</p>

<p>"For a jeweler."</p>

<p>"For what jeweler?"</p>

<p>"I do not know. Stidmann asked me to make something out of
them, as he<br>
 is very busy."</p>

<p>"But these," she said in a deep voice, "are <i>Hortensias</i>.
How is it<br>
 that you have never made anything in wax for me? Is it so
difficult to<br>
 design a pin, a little box--what not, as a keepsake?" and she
shot a<br>
 fearful glance at the artist, whose eyes were happily lowered.
"And<br>
 yet you say you love me?"</p>

<p>"Can you doubt it, mademoiselle?"</p>

<p>"That is indeed an ardent <i>mademoiselle</i>!--Why, you have
been my only<br>
 thought since I found you dying--just there. When I saved you,
you<br>
 vowed you were mine, I mean to hold you to that pledge; but I
made a<br>
 vow to myself! I said to myself, 'Since the boy says he is mine,
I<br>
 mean to make him rich and happy!' Well, and I can make your
fortune."</p>

<p>"How?" said the hapless artist, at the height of joy, and too
artless<br>
 to dream of a snare.</p>

<p>"Why, thus," said she.</p>

<p>Lisbeth could not deprive herself of the savage pleasure of
gazing at<br>
 Wenceslas, who looked up at her with filial affection, the
expression<br>
 really of his love for Hortense, which deluded the old maid.
Seeing in<br>
 a man's eyes, for the first time in her life, the blazing torch
of<br>
 passion, she fancied it was for her that it was lighted.</p>

<p>"Monsieur Crevel will back us to the extent of a hundred
thousand<br>
 francs to start in business, if, as he says, you will marry me.
He has<br>
 queer ideas, has the worthy man.--Well, what do you say to it?"
she<br>
 added.</p>

<p>The artist, as pale as the dead, looked at his benefactress
with a<br>
 lustreless eye, which plainly spoke his thoughts. He stood
stupefied<br>
 and open-mouthed.</p>

<p>"I never before was so distinctly told that I am hideous,"
said she,<br>
 with a bitter laugh.</p>

<p>"Mademoiselle," said Steinbock, "my benefactress can never be
ugly in<br>
 my eyes; I have the greatest affection for you. But I am not
yet<br>
 thirty, and----"</p>

<p>"I am forty-three," said Lisbeth. "My cousin Adeline is
forty-eight,<br>
 and men are still madly in love with her; but then she is
handsome--<br>
 she is!"</p>

<p>"Fifteen years between us, mademoiselle! How could we get on
together!<br>
 For both our sakes I think we should be wise to think it over.
My<br>
 gratitude shall be fully equal to your great kindness.--And your
money<br>
 shall be repaid in a few days."</p>

<p>"My money!" cried she. "You treat me as if I were nothing but
an<br>
 unfeeling usurer."</p>

<p>"Forgive me," said Wenceslas, "but you remind me of it so
often.--<br>
 Well, it is you who have made me; do not crush me."</p>

<p>"You mean to be rid of me, I can see," said she, shaking her
head.<br>
 "Who has endowed you with this strength of ingratitude--you who
are a<br>
 man of papier-mache? Have you ceased to trust me--your good
genius?--<br>
 me, when I have spent so many nights working for you--when I
have<br>
 given you every franc I have saved in my lifetime--when for four
years<br>
 I have shared my bread with you, the bread of a hard-worked
woman, and<br>
 given you all I had, to my very courage."</p>

<p>"Mademoiselle--no more, no more!" he cried, kneeling before
her with<br>
 uplifted hands. "Say not another word! In three days I will tell
you,<br>
 you shall know all.--Let me, let me be happy," and he kissed
her<br>
 hands. "I love--and I am loved."</p>

<p>"Well, well, my child, be happy," she said, lifting him up.
And she<br>
 kissed his forehead and hair with the eagerness that a man
condemned<br>
 to death must feel as he lives through the last morning.</p>

<p>"Ah! you are of all creatures the noblest and best! You are a
match<br>
 for the woman I love," said the poor artist.</p>

<p>"I love you well enough to tremble for your future fate," said
she<br>
 gloomily. "Judas hanged himself--the ungrateful always come to a
bad<br>
 end! You are deserting me, and you will never again do any good
work.<br>
 Consider whether, without being married--for I know I am an old
maid,<br>
 and I do not want to smother the blossom of your youth, your
poetry,<br>
 as you call it, in my arms, that are like vine-stocks--but
whether,<br>
 without being married, we could not get on together? Listen; I
have<br>
 the commercial spirit; I could save you a fortune in the course
of ten<br>
 years' work, for Economy is my name!--while, with a young wife,
who<br>
 would be sheer Expenditure, you would squander everything; you
would<br>
 work only to indulge her. But happiness creates nothing but
memories.<br>
 Even I, when I am thinking of you, sit for hours with my hands
in my<br>
 lap----</p>

<p>"Come, Wenceslas, stay with me.--Look here, I understand all
about it;<br>
 you shall have your mistresses; pretty ones too, like that
little<br>
 Marneffe woman who wants to see you, and who will give you
happiness<br>
 you could never find with me. Then, when I have saved you
thirty<br>
 thousand francs a year in the funds----"</p>

<p>"Mademoiselle, you are an angel, and I shall never forget this
hour,"<br>
 said Wenceslas, wiping away his tears.</p>

<p>"That is how I like to see you, my child," said she, gazing at
him<br>
 with rapture.</p>

<p>Vanity is so strong a power in us all that Lisbeth believed in
her<br>
 triumph. She had conceded so much when offering him Madame
Marneffe.<br>
 It was the crowning emotion of her life; for the first time she
felt<br>
 the full tide of joy rising in her heart. To go through such
an<br>
 experience again she would have sold her soul to the Devil.</p>

<p>"I am engaged to be married," Steinbock replied, "and I love a
woman<br>
 with whom no other can compete or compare.--But you are, and
always<br>
 will be, to me the mother I have lost."</p>

<p>The words fell like an avalanche of snow on a burning crater.
Lisbeth<br>
 sat down. She gazed with despondent eyes on the youth before
her, on<br>
 his aristocratic beauty--the artist's brow, the splendid
hair,<br>
 everything that appealed to her suppressed feminine instincts,
and<br>
 tiny tears moistened her eyes for an instant and immediately
dried up.<br>
 She looked like one of those meagre statues which the sculptors
of the<br>
 Middle Ages carved on monuments.</p>

<p>"I cannot curse you," said she, suddenly rising. "You--you are
but a<br>
 boy. God preserve you!"</p>

<p>She went downstairs and shut herself into her own room.</p>

<p>"She is in love with me, poor creature!" said Wenceslas to
himself.<br>
 "And how fervently eloquent! She is crazy."</p>

<p>This last effort on the part of an arid and narrow nature to
keep hold<br>
 on an embodiment of beauty and poetry was, in truth, so violent
that<br>
 it can only be compared to the frenzied vehemence of a
shipwrecked<br>
 creature making the last struggle to reach shore.</p>

<p>On the next day but one, at half-past four in the morning,
when Count<br>
 Steinbock was sunk in the deepest sleep, he heard a knock at the
door<br>
 of his attic; he rose to open it, and saw two men in shabby
clothing,<br>
 and a third, whose dress proclaimed him a bailiff down on his
luck.</p>

<p>"You are Monsieur Wenceslas, Count Steinbock?" said this
man.</p>

<p>"Yes, monsieur."</p>

<p>"My name is Grasset, sir, successor to Louchard, sheriff's<br>
 officer----"</p>

<p>"What then?"</p>

<p>"You are under arrest, sir. You must come with us to
prison--to<br>
 Clichy.--Please to get dressed.--We have done the civil, as you
see; I<br>
 have brought no police, and there is a hackney cab below."</p>

<p>"You are safely nabbed, you see," said one of the bailiffs;
"and we<br>
 look to you to be liberal."</p>

<p>Steinbock dressed and went downstairs, a man holding each arm;
when he<br>
 was in the cab, the driver started without orders, as knowing
where he<br>
 was to go, and within half an hour the unhappy foreigner found
himself<br>
 safely under bolt and bar without even a remonstrance, so
utterly<br>
 amazed was he.</p>

<p>At ten o'clock he was sent for to the prison-office, where he
found<br>
 Lisbeth, who, in tears, gave him some money to feed himself
adequately<br>
 and to pay for a room large enough to work in.</p>

<p>"My dear boy," said she, "never say a word of your arrest to
anybody,<br>
 do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we
must<br>
 hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I
will<br>
 collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for
your<br>
 work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it."</p>

<p>"Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!" cried he, "for I
should<br>
 lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow."</p>

<p>Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her
artist under<br>
 lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that
he was<br>
 a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off
to<br>
 Russia.</p>

<p>To carry out this plan, at about three o'clock she went to
the<br>
 Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine
with her;<br>
 but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure
at the<br>
 hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his
appearance.</p>

<p>"Have you come to dinner?" asked the Baroness, concealing
her<br>
 disappointment.</p>

<p>"Well, yes."</p>

<p>"That's well," replied Hortense. "I will go and tell them to
be<br>
 punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting."</p>

<p>Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended
to tell<br>
 the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should
call; the<br>
 man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to
give her<br>
 orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her
needlework<br>
 and sit in the ante-room.</p>

<p>"And about my lover?" said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the
girl<br>
 came back. "You never ask about him now?"</p>

<p>"To be sure, what is he doing?" said Hortense. "He has become
famous.<br>
 You ought to be very happy," she added in an undertone to
Lisbeth.<br>
 "Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock."</p>

<p>"A great deal too much," replied she in her clear tones.
"Monsieur is<br>
 departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as
to defy<br>
 the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in
order<br>
 to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols
has<br>
 pardoned him----"</p>

<p>"Nonsense!" said the Baroness.</p>

<p>"When did you hear that?" asked Hortense, who felt as if her
heart had<br>
 the cramp.</p>

<p>"Well," said the villainous Lisbeth, "a person to whom he is
bound by<br>
 the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so.
He<br>
 wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France
to go<br>
 to Russia!--"</p>

<p>Hortense looked at her mother, but her head sank on one side;
the<br>
 Baroness was only just in time to support her daughter, who
dropped<br>
 fainting, and as white as her lace kerchief.</p>

<p>"Lisbeth! you have killed my child!" cried the Baroness. "You
were<br>
 born to be our curse!"</p>

<p>"Bless me! what fault of mine is this, Adeline?" replied
Lisbeth, as<br>
 she rose with a menacing aspect, of which the Baroness, in her
alarm,<br>
 took no notice.</p>

<p>"I was wrong," said Adeline, supporting the girl. "Ring."</p>

<p>At this instant the door opened, the women both looked round,
and saw<br>
 Wenceslas Steinbock, who had been admitted by the cook in the
maid's<br>
 absence.</p>

<p>"Hortense!" cried the artist, with one spring to the group of
women.<br>
 And he kissed his betrothed before her mother's eyes, on the
forehead,<br>
 and so reverently, that the Baroness could not be angry. It was
a<br>
 better restorative than any smelling salts. Hortense opened her
eyes,<br>
 saw Wenceslas, and her color came back. In a few minutes she had
quite<br>
 recovered.</p>

<p>"So this was your secret?" said Lisbeth, smiling at Wenceslas,
and<br>
 affecting to guess the facts from her two cousins'
confusion.</p>

<p>"But how did you steal away my lover?" said she, leading
Hortense into<br>
 the garden.</p>

<p>Hortense artlessly told the romance of her love. Her father
and<br>
 mother, she said, being convinced that Lisbeth would never
marry, had<br>
 authorized the Count's visits. Only Hortense, like a full-blown
Agnes,<br>
 attributed to chance her purchase of the group and the
introduction of<br>
 the artist, who, by her account, had insisted on knowing the
name of<br>
 his first purchaser.</p>

<p>Presently Steinbock came out to join the cousins, and thanked
the old<br>
 maid effusively for his prompt release. Lisbeth replied
Jesuitically<br>
 that the creditor having given very vague promises, she had not
hoped<br>
 to be able to get him out before the morrow, and that the person
who<br>
 had lent her the money, ashamed, perhaps, of such mean conduct,
had<br>
 been beforehand with her. The old maid appeared to be
perfectly<br>
 content, and congratulated Wenceslas on his happiness.</p>

<p>"You bad boy!" said she, before Hortense and her mother, "if
you had<br>
 only told me the evening before last that you loved my
cousin<br>
 Hortense, and that she loved you, you would have spared me many
tears.<br>
 I thought that you were deserting your old friend, your
governess;<br>
 while, on the contrary, you are to become my cousin; henceforth,
you<br>
 will be connected with me, remotely, it is true, but by ties
that<br>
 amply justify the feelings I have for you." And she kissed
Wenceslas<br>
 on the forehead.</p>

<p>Hortense threw herself into Lisbeth's arms and melted into
tears.</p>

<p>"I owe my happiness to you," said she, "and I will never
forget it."</p>

<p>"Cousin Betty," said the Baroness, embracing Lisbeth in her
excitement<br>
 at seeing matters so happily settled, "the Baron and I owe you a
debt<br>
 of gratitude, and we will pay it. Come and talk things over with
me,"<br>
 she added, leading her away.</p>

<p>So Lisbeth, to all appearances, was playing the part of a good
angel<br>
 to the whole family; she was adored by Crevel and Hulot, by
Adeline<br>
 and Hortense.</p>

<p>"We wish you to give up working," said the Baroness. "If you
earn<br>
 forty sous a day, Sundays excepted, that makes six hundred
francs a<br>
 year. Well, then, how much have you saved?"</p>

<p>"Four thousand five hundred francs."</p>

<p>"Poor Betty!" said her cousin.</p>

<p>She raised her eyes to heaven, so deeply was she moved at the
thought<br>
 of all the labor and privation such a sum must represent
accumulated<br>
 during thirty years.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, misunderstanding the meaning of the exclamation, took
it as<br>
 the ironical pity of the successful woman, and her hatred
was<br>
 strengthened by a large infusion of venom at the very moment
when her<br>
 cousin had cast off her last shred of distrust of the tyrant of
her<br>
 childhood.</p>

<p>"We will add ten thousand five hundred francs to that sum,"
said<br>
 Adeline, "and put it in trust so that you shall draw the
interest for<br>
 life with reversion to Hortense. Thus, you will have six
hundred<br>
 francs a year."</p>

<p>Lisbeth feigned the utmost satisfaction. When she went in,
her<br>
 handkerchief to her eyes, wiping away tears of joy, Hortense
told her<br>
 of all the favors being showered on Wenceslas, beloved of the
family.</p>

<p>So when the Baron came home, he found his family all present;
for the<br>
 Baroness had formally accepted Wenceslas by the title of Son,
and the<br>
 wedding was fixed, if her husband should approve, for a day
a<br>
 fortnight hence. The moment he came into the drawing-room, Hulot
was<br>
 rushed at by his wife and daughter, who ran to meet him, Adeline
to<br>
 speak to him privately, and Hortense to kiss him.</p>

<p>"You have gone too far in pledging me to this, madame," said
the Baron<br>
 sternly. "You are not married yet," he added with a look at
Steinbock,<br>
 who turned pale.</p>

<p>"He has heard of my imprisonment," said the luckless artist
to<br>
 himself.</p>

<p>"Come, children," said he, leading his daughter and the young
man into<br>
 the garden; they all sat down on the moss-eaten seat in the
summer-<br>
 house.</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Comte, do you love my daughter as well as I loved
her<br>
 mother?" he asked.</p>

<p>"More, monsieur," said the sculptor.</p>

<p>"Her mother was a peasant's daughter, and had not a farthing
of her<br>
 own."</p>

<p>"Only give me Mademoiselle Hortense just as she is, without
a<br>
 trousseau even----"</p>

<p>"So I should think!" said the Baron, smiling. "Hortense is
the<br>
 daughter of the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, Councillor of State, high up
in<br>
 the War Office, Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor, and
the<br>
 brother to Count Hulot, whose glory is immortal, and who will
ere long<br>
 be Marshal of France! And--she has a marriage portion.</p>

<p>"It is true," said the impassioned artist. "I must seem
very<br>
 ambitious. But if my dear Hortense were a laborer's daughter, I
would<br>
 marry her----"</p>

<p>"That is just what I wanted to know," replied the Baron. "Run
away,<br>
 Hortense, and leave me to talk business with Monsieur le
Comte.--He<br>
 really loves you, you see!"</p>

<p>"Oh, papa, I was sure you were only in jest," said the happy
girl.</p>

<p>"My dear Steinbock," said the Baron, with elaborate grace of
diction<br>
 and the most perfect manners, as soon as he and the artist were
alone,<br>
 "I promised my son a fortune of two hundred thousand francs, of
which<br>
 the poor boy has never had a sou; and he never will get any of
it. My<br>
 daughter's fortune will also be two hundred thousand francs, for
which<br>
 you will give a receipt----"</p>

<p>"Yes, Monsieur le Baron."</p>

<p>"You go too fast," said Hulot. "Have the goodness to hear me
out. I<br>
 cannot expect from a son-in-law such devotion as I look for from
my<br>
 son. My son knew exactly all I could and would do for his
future<br>
 promotion: he will be a Minister, and will easily make good his
two<br>
 hundred thousand francs. But with you, young man, matters
are<br>
 different. I shall give you a bond for sixty thousand francs in
State<br>
 funds at five per cent, in your wife's name. This income will
be<br>
 diminished by a small charge in the form of an annuity to
Lisbeth; but<br>
 she will not live long; she is consumptive, I know. Tell no one;
it is<br>
 a secret; let the poor soul die in peace.--My daughter will have
a<br>
 trousseau worth twenty thousand francs; her mother will give her
six<br>
 thousand francs worth of diamonds.</p>

<p><br>
 "Monsieur, you overpower me!" said Steinbock, quite
bewildered.</p>

<p>"As to the remaining hundred and twenty thousand
francs----"</p>

<p>"Say no more, monsieur," said Wenceslas. "I ask only for my
beloved<br>
 Hortense----"</p>

<p>"Will you listen to me, effervescent youth!--As to the
remaining<br>
 hundred and twenty thousand francs, I have not got them; but you
will<br>
 have them--"</p>

<p>"Monsieur?"</p>

<p>"You will get them from the Government, in payment for
commissions<br>
 which I will secure for you, I pledge you my word of honor. You
are to<br>
 have a studio, you see, at the Government depot. Exhibit a few
fine<br>
 statues, and I will get you received at the Institute. The
highest<br>
 personages have a regard for my brother and for me, and I hope
to<br>
 succeed in securing for you a commission for sculpture at
Versailles<br>
 up to a quarter of the whole sum. You will have orders from the
City<br>
 of Paris and from the Chamber of Peers; in short, my dear
fellow, you<br>
 will have so many that you will be obliged to get assistants. In
that<br>
 way I shall pay off my debt to you. You must say whether this
way of<br>
 giving a portion will suit you; whether you are equal to
it."</p>

<p>"I am equal to making a fortune for my wife single-handed if
all else<br>
 failed!" cried the artist-nobleman.</p>

<p>"That is what I admire!" cried the Baron. "High-minded youth
that<br>
 fears nothing. Come," he added, clasping hands with the young
sculptor<br>
 to conclude the bargain, "you have my consent. We will sign
the<br>
 contract on Sunday next, and the wedding shall be on the
following<br>
 Saturday, my wife's fete-day."</p>

<p>"It is alright," said the Baroness to her daughter, who stood
glued to<br>
 the window. "Your suitor and your father are embracing each
other."</p>

<p>On going home in the evening, Wenceslas found the solution of
the<br>
 mystery of his release. The porter handed him a thick sealed
packet,<br>
 containing the schedule of his debts, with a signed receipt
affixed at<br>
 the bottom of the writ, and accompanied by this letter:--</p>

<p>"MY DEAR WENCESLAS,--I went to fetch you at ten o'clock
this<br>
 morning to introduce you to a Royal Highness who wishes to
see<br>
 you. There I learned that the duns had had you conveyed to a<br>
 certain little domain--chief town, <i>Clichy Castle.</i></p>

<p>"So off I went to Leon de Lora, and told him, for a joke, that
you<br>
 could not leave your country quarters for lack of four
thousand<br>
 francs, and that you would spoil your future prospects if you
did<br>
 not make your bow to your royal patron. Happily, Bridau was
there<br>
 --a man of genius, who has known what it is to be poor, and
has<br>
 heard your story. My boy, between them they have found the
money,<br>
 and I went off to pay the Turk who committed treason against<br>
 genius by putting you in quod. As I had to be at the Tuileries
at<br>
 noon, I could not wait to see you sniffing the outer air. I
know<br>
 you to be a gentleman, and I answered for you to my two
friends--<br>
 but look them up to-morrow.</p>

<p>"Leon and Bridau do not want your cash; they will ask you to
do<br>
 them each a group--and they are right. At least, so thinks the
man<br>
 who wishes he could sign himself your rival, but is only
your<br>
 faithful ally,</p>

<p>"STIDMANN.</p>

<p>"P. S.--I told the Prince you were away, and would not return
till<br>
 to-morrow, so he said, 'Very good--to-morrow.' "</p>

<p><br>
 Count Wenceslas went to bed in sheets of purple, without a
rose-leaf<br>
 to wrinkle them, that Favor can make for us--Favor, the
halting<br>
 divinity who moves more slowly for men of genius than either
Justice<br>
 or Fortune, because Jove has not chosen to bandage her eyes.
Hence,<br>
 lightly deceived by the display of impostors, and attracted by
their<br>
 frippery and trumpets, she spends the time in seeing them and
the<br>
 money in paying them which she ought to devote to seeking out
men of<br>
 merit in the nooks where they hide.</p>

<p>It will now be necessary to explain how Monsieur le Baron
Hulot had<br>
 contrived to count up his expenditure on Hortense's wedding
portion,<br>
 and at the same time to defray the frightful cost of the
charming<br>
 rooms where Madame Marneffe was to make her home. His financial
scheme<br>
 bore that stamp of talent which leads prodigals and men in love
into<br>
 the quagmires where so many disasters await them. Nothing
can<br>
 demonstrate more completely the strange capacity communicated by
vice,<br>
 to which we owe the strokes of skill which ambitious or
voluptuous men<br>
 can occasionally achieve--or, in short, any of the Devil's
pupils.</p>

<p>On the day before, old Johann Fischer, unable to pay thirty
thousand<br>
 francs drawn for on him by his nephew, had found himself under
the<br>
 necessity of stopping payment unless the Baron could remit the
sum.</p>

<p>This ancient worthy, with the white hairs of seventy years,
had such<br>
 blind confidence in Hulot--who, to the old Bonapartist, was
an<br>
 emanation from the Napoleonic sun--that he was calmly pacing
his<br>
 anteroom with the bank clerk, in the little ground-floor
apartment<br>
 that he rented for eight hundred francs a year as the
headquarters of<br>
 his extensive dealings in corn and forage.</p>

<p>"Marguerite is gone to fetch the money from close by," said
he.</p>

<p>The official, in his gray uniform braided with silver, was
so<br>
 convinced of the old Alsatian's honesty, that he was prepared to
leave<br>
 the thirty thousand francs' worth of bills in his hands; but the
old<br>
 man would not let him go, observing that the clock had not yet
struck<br>
 eight. A cab drew up, the old man rushed into the street, and
held out<br>
 his hand to the Baron with sublime confidence--Hulot handed him
out<br>
 thirty thousand-franc notes.</p>

<p>"Go on three doors further, and I will tell you why," said
Fischer.</p>

<p>"Here, young man," he said, returning to count out the money
to the<br>
 bank emissary, whom he then saw to the door.</p>

<p>When the clerk was out of sight, Fischer called back the
cab<br>
 containing his august nephew, Napoleon's right hand, and said,
as he<br>
 led him into the house:</p>

<p>"You do not want them to know at the Bank of France that you
paid me<br>
 the thirty thousand francs, after endorsing the bills?--It was
bad<br>
 enough to see them signed by such a man as you!--"</p>

<p>"Come to the bottom of your little garden, Father Fischer,"
said the<br>
 important man. "You are hearty?" he went on, sitting down under
a vine<br>
 arbor and scanning the old man from head to foot, as a dealer in
human<br>
 flesh scans a substitute for the conscription.</p>

<p>"Ay, hearty enough for a tontine," said the lean little old
man; his<br>
 sinews were wiry, and his eye bright.</p>

<p>"Does heat disagree with you?"</p>

<p>"Quite the contrary."</p>

<p>"What do you say to Africa?"</p>

<p>"A very nice country!--The French went there with the little
Corporal"<br>
 (Napoleon).</p>

<p>"To get us all out of the present scrape, you must go to
Algiers,"<br>
 said the Baron.</p>

<p>"And how about my business?"</p>

<p>"An official in the War Office, who has to retire, and has not
enough<br>
 to live on with his pension, will buy your business."</p>

<p>"And what am I to do in Algiers?"</p>

<p>"Supply the Commissariat with victuals, corn, and forage; I
have your<br>
 commission ready filled in and signed. You can collect supplies
in the<br>
 country at seventy per cent below the prices at which you can
credit<br>
 us."</p>

<p>"How shall we get them?"</p>

<p>"Oh, by raids, by taxes in kind, and the Khaliphat.--The
country is<br>
 little known, though we settled there eight years ago;
Algeria<br>
 produces vast quantities of corn and forage. When this produce
belongs<br>
 to Arabs, we take it from them under various pretences; when
it<br>
 belongs to us, the Arabs try to get it back again. There is a
great<br>
 deal of fighting over the corn, and no one ever knows exactly
how much<br>
 each party has stolen from the other. There is not time in the
open<br>
 field to measure the corn as we do in the Paris market, or the
hay as<br>
 it is sold in the Rue d'Enfer. The Arab chiefs, like our
Spahis,<br>
 prefer hard cash, and sell the plunder at a very low price.
The<br>
 Commissariat needs a fixed quantity and must have it. It winks
at<br>
 exorbitant prices calculated on the difficulty of procuring
food, and<br>
 the dangers to which every form of transport is exposed. That
is<br>
 Algiers from the army contractor's point of view.</p>

<p>"It is a muddle tempered by the ink-bottle, like every
incipient<br>
 government. We shall not see our way through it for another ten
years<br>
 --we who have to do the governing; but private enterprise has
sharp<br>
 eyes.--So I am sending you there to make a fortune; I give you
the<br>
 job, as Napoleon put an impoverished Marshal at the head of a
kingdom<br>
 where smuggling might be secretly encouraged.</p>

<p>"I am ruined, my dear Fischer; I must have a hundred thousand
francs<br>
 within a year."</p>

<p>"I see no harm in getting it out of the Bedouins," said the
Alsatian<br>
 calmly. "It was always done under the Empire----"</p>

<p>"The man who wants to buy your business will be here this
morning, and<br>
 pay you ten thousand francs down," the Baron went on. "That will
be<br>
 enough, I suppose, to take you to Africa?"</p>

<p>The old man nodded assent.</p>

<p>"As to capital out there, be quite easy. I will draw the
remainder of<br>
 the money due if I find it necessary."</p>

<p>"All I have is yours--my very blood," said old Fischer.</p>

<p>"Oh, do not be uneasy," said Hulot, fancying that his uncle
saw more<br>
 clearly than was the fact. "As to our excise dealings, your
character<br>
 will not be impugned. Everything depends on the authority at
your<br>
 back; now I myself appointed the authorities out there; I am
sure of<br>
 them. This, Uncle Fischer, is a dead secret between us. I know
you<br>
 well, and I have spoken out without concealment or
circumlocution."</p>

<p>"It shall be done," said the old man. "And it will go
on----?"</p>

<p>"For two years, You will have made a hundred thousand francs
of your<br>
 own to live happy on in the Vosges."</p>

<p>"I will do as you wish; my honor is yours," said the little
old man<br>
 quietly.</p>

<p>"That is the sort of man I like.--However, you must not go
till you<br>
 have seen your grand-niece happily married. She is to be a
Countess."</p>

<p>But even taxes and raids and the money paid by the War Office
clerk<br>
 for Fischer's business could not forthwith provide sixty
thousand<br>
 francs to give Hortense, to say nothing of her trousseau, which
was to<br>
 cost about five thousand, and the forty thousand spent--or to be
spent<br>
 --on Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>Where, then had the Baron found the thirty thousand francs he
had just<br>
 produced? This was the history.</p>

<p>A few days previously Hulot had insured his life for the sum
of a<br>
 hundred and fifty thousand francs, for three years, in two
separate<br>
 companies. Armed with the policies, of which he paid the
premium, he<br>
 had spoken as follows to the Baron de Nucingen, a peer of the
Chamber,<br>
 in whose carriage he found himself after a sitting, driving
home, in<br>
 fact, to dine with him:--</p>

<p>"Baron, I want seventy thousand francs, and I apply to you.
You must<br>
 find some one to lend his name, to whom I will make over the
right to<br>
 draw my pay for three years; it amounts to twenty-five thousand
francs<br>
 a year--that is, seventy-five thousand francs.--You will say,
'But you<br>
 may die' "--the banker signified his assent--"Here, then, is a
policy<br>
 of insurance for a hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I
will<br>
 deposit with you till you have drawn up the eighty thousand
francs,"<br>
 said Hulot, producing the document form his pocket.</p>

<p>"But if you should lose your place?" said the millionaire
Baron,<br>
 laughing.</p>

<p>The other Baron--not a millionaire--looked grave.</p>

<p>"Be quite easy; I only raised the question to show you that I
was not<br>
 devoid of merit in handing you the sum. Are you so short of
cash? for<br>
 the Bank will take your signature."</p>

<p>"My daughter is to be married," said Baron Hulot, "and I have
no<br>
 fortune--like every one else who remains in office in these
thankless<br>
 times, when five hundred ordinary men seated on benches will
never<br>
 reward the men who devote themselves to the service as
handsomely as<br>
 the Emperor did."</p>

<p>"Well, well; but you had Josepha on your hands!" replied
Nucingen,<br>
 "and that accounts for everything. Between ourselves, the
Duc<br>
 d'Herouville has done you a very good turn by removing that
leech from<br>
 sucking your purse dry. 'I have known what that is, and can pity
your<br>
 case,' " he quoted. "Take a friend's advice: Shut up shop, or
you will<br>
 be done for."</p>

<p>This dirty business was carried out in the name of one
Vauvinet, a<br>
 small money-lender; one of those jobbers who stand forward to
screen<br>
 great banking houses, like the little fish that is said to
attend the<br>
 shark. This stock-jobber's apprentice was so anxious to gain
the<br>
 patronage of Monsieur le Baron Hulot, that he promised the great
man<br>
 to negotiate bills of exchange for thirty thousand francs at
eighty<br>
 days, and pledged himself to renew them four times, and never
pass<br>
 them out of his hands.</p>

<p>Fischer's successor was to pay forty thousand francs for the
house and<br>
 the business, with the promise that he should supply forage to
a<br>
 department close to Paris.</p>

<p>This was the desperate maze of affairs into which a man who
had<br>
 hitherto been absolutely honest was led by his passions--one of
the<br>
 best administrative officials under Napoleon--peculation to pay
the<br>
 money-lenders, and borrowing of the money-lenders to gratify
his<br>
 passions and provide for his daughter. All the efforts of
this<br>
 elaborate prodigality were directed at making a display before
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, and to playing Jupiter to this middle-class Danae. A
man<br>
 could not expend more activity, intelligence, and presence of
mind in<br>
 the honest acquisition of a fortune than the Baron displayed
in<br>
 shoving his head into a wasp's nest: He did all the business of
his<br>
 department, he hurried on the upholsterers, he talked to the
workmen,<br>
 he kept a sharp lookout on the smallest details of the house in
the<br>
 Rue Vanneau. Wholly devoted to Madame Marneffe, he
nevertheless<br>
 attended the sittings of the Chambers; he was everywhere at
once, and<br>
 neither his family nor anybody else discovered where his
thoughts<br>
 were.</p>

<p>Adeline, quite amazed to hear that her uncle was rescued, and
to see a<br>
 handsome sum figure in the marriage-contract, was not altogether
easy,<br>
 in spite of her joy at seeing her daughter married under
such<br>
 creditable circumstances. But, on the day before the wedding,
fixed by<br>
 the Baron to coincide with Madame Marneffe's removal to her
new<br>
 apartment, Hector allayed his wife's astonishment by this
ministerial<br>
 communication:--</p>

<p>"Now, Adeline, our girl is married; all our anxieties on the
subject<br>
 are at an end. The time is come for us to retire from the world:
I<br>
 shall not remain in office more than three years longer--only
the time<br>
 necessary to secure my pension. Why, henceforth, should we be at
any<br>
 unnecessary expense? Our apartment costs us six thousand francs
a year<br>
 in rent, we have four servants, we eat thirty thousand francs'
worth<br>
 of food in a year. If you want me to pay off my bills--for I
have<br>
 pledged my salary for the sums I needed to give Hortense her
little<br>
 money, and pay off your uncle----"</p>

<p>"You did very right!" said she, interrupting her husband, and
kissing<br>
 his hands.</p>

<p>This explanation relieved Adeline of all her fears.</p>

<p>"I shall have to ask some little sacrifices of you," he went
on,<br>
 disengaging his hands and kissing his wife's brow. "I have found
in<br>
 the Rue Plumet a very good flat on the first floor,
handsome,<br>
 splendidly paneled, at only fifteen hundred francs a year, where
you<br>
 would only need one woman to wait on you, and I could be quite
content<br>
 with a boy."</p>

<p>"Yes, my dear."</p>

<p>"If we keep house in a quiet way, keeping up a proper
appearance of<br>
 course, we should not spend more than six thousand francs a
year,<br>
 excepting my private account, which I will provide for."</p>

<p>The generous-hearted woman threw her arms round her husband's
neck in<br>
 her joy.</p>

<p>"How happy I shall be, beginning again to show you how truly I
love<br>
 you!" she exclaimed. "And what a capital manager you are!"</p>

<p>"We will have the children to dine with us once a week. I, as
you<br>
 know, rarely dine at home. You can very well dine twice a week
with<br>
 Victorin and twice a week with Hortense. And, as I believe, I
may<br>
 succeed in making matters up completely between Crevel and us;
we can<br>
 dine once a week with him. These five dinners and our own at
home will<br>
 fill up the week all but one day, supposing that we may
occasionally<br>
 be invited to dine elsewhere."</p>

<p>"I shall save a great deal for you," said Adeline.</p>

<p>"Oh!" he cried, "you are the pearl of women!"</p>

<p>"My kind, divine Hector, I shall bless you with my latest
breath,"<br>
 said she, "for you have done well for my dear Hortense."</p>

<p>This was the beginning of the end of the beautiful Madame
Hulot's<br>
 home; and, it may be added, of her being totally neglected, as
Hulot<br>
 had solemnly promised Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>Crevel, the important and burly, being invited as a matter of
course<br>
 to the party given for the signing of the marriage-contract,
behaved<br>
 as though the scene with which this drama opened had never
taken<br>
 place, as though he had no grievance against the Baron.
Celestin<br>
 Crevel was quite amiable; he was perhaps rather too much the<br>
 ex-perfumer, but as a Major he was beginning to acquire
majestic<br>
 dignity. He talked of dancing at the wedding.</p>

<p>"Fair lady," said he politely to the Baroness, "people like us
know<br>
 how to forget. Do not banish me from your home; honor me, pray,
by<br>
 gracing my house with your presence now and then to meet
your<br>
 children. Be quite easy; I will never say anything of what lies
buried<br>
 at the bottom of my heart. I behaved, indeed, like an idiot, for
I<br>
 should lose too much by cutting myself off from seeing you."</p>

<p>"Monsieur, an honest woman has no ears for such speeches as
those you<br>
 refer to. If you keep your word, you need not doubt that it will
give<br>
 me pleasure to see the end of a coolness which must always be
painful<br>
 in a family."</p>

<p>"Well, you sulky old fellow," said Hulot, dragging Crevel out
into the<br>
 garden, "you avoid me everywhere, even in my own house. Are
two<br>
 admirers of the fair sex to quarrel for ever over a petticoat?
Come;<br>
 this is really too plebeian!"</p>

<p>"I, monsieur, am not such a fine man as you are, and my
small<br>
 attractions hinder me from repairing my losses so easily as
you<br>
 can----"</p>

<p>"Sarcastic!" said the Baron.</p>

<p>"Irony is allowable from the vanquished to the conquerer."</p>

<p>The conversation, begun in this strain, ended in a
complete<br>
 reconciliation; still Crevel maintained his right to take his
revenge.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe particularly wished to be invited to
Mademoiselle<br>
 Hulot's wedding. To enable him to receive his future mistress in
his<br>
 drawing-room, the great official was obliged to invite all the
clerks<br>
 of his division down to the deputy head-clerks inclusive. Thus a
grand<br>
 ball was a necessity. The Baroness, as a prudent housewife,
calculated<br>
 that an evening party would cost less than a dinner, and allow
of a<br>
 larger number of invitations; so Hortense's wedding was much
talked<br>
 about.</p>

<p><br>
 Marshal Prince Wissembourg and the Baron de Nucingen signed in
behalf<br>
 of the bride, the Comtes de Rastignac and Popinot in behalf
of<br>
 Steinbock. Then, as the highest nobility among the Polish
emigrants<br>
 had been civil to Count Steinbock since he had become famous,
the<br>
 artist thought himself bound to invite them. The State Council,
and<br>
 the War Office to which the Baron belonged, and the army,
anxious to<br>
 do honor to the Comte de Forzheim, were all represented by
their<br>
 magnates. There were nearly two hundred indispensable
invitations. How<br>
 natural, then, that little Madame Marneffe was bent on figuring
in all<br>
 her glory amid such an assembly. The Baroness had, a month
since, sold<br>
 her diamonds to set up her daughter's house, while keeping the
finest<br>
 for the trousseau. The sale realized fifteen thousand francs, of
which<br>
 five thousand were sunk in Hortense's clothes. And what was
ten<br>
 thousand francs for the furniture of the young folks'
apartment,<br>
 considering the demands of modern luxury? However, young
Monsieur and<br>
 Madame Hulot, old Crevel, and the Comte de Forzheim made very
handsome<br>
 presents, for the old soldier had set aside a sum for the
purchase of<br>
 plate. Thanks to these contributions, even an exacting Parisian
would<br>
 have been pleased with the rooms the young couple had taken in
the Rue<br>
 Saint-Dominique, near the Invalides. Everything seemed in
harmony with<br>
 their love, pure, honest, and sincere.</p>

<p>At last the great day dawned--for it was to be a great day not
only<br>
 for Wenceslas and Hortense, but for old Hulot too. Madame
Marneffe was<br>
 to give a house-warming in her new apartment the day after
becoming<br>
 Hulot's mistress <i>en titre</i>, and after the marriage of the
lovers.</p>

<p>Who but has once in his life been a guest at a wedding-ball?
Every<br>
 reader can refer to his reminiscences, and will probably smile
as he<br>
 calls up the images of all that company in their Sunday-best
faces as<br>
 well as their finest frippery.</p>

<p>If any social event can prove the influence of environment, is
it not<br>
 this? In fact, the Sunday-best mood of some reacts so
effectually on<br>
 the rest that the men who are most accustomed to wearing full
dress<br>
 look just like those to whom the party is a high festival,
unique in<br>
 their life. And think too of the serious old men to whom such
things<br>
 are so completely a matter of indifference, that they are
wearing<br>
 their everyday black coats; the long-married men, whose faces
betray<br>
 their sad experience of the life the young pair are but just
entering<br>
 on; and the lighter elements, present as carbonic-acid gas is
in<br>
 champagne; and the envious girls, the women absorbed in
wondering if<br>
 their dress is a success, the poor relations whose parsimonious
"get-<br>
 up" contrasts with that of the officials in uniform; and the
greedy<br>
 ones, thinking only of the supper; and the gamblers, thinking
only of<br>
 cards.</p>

<p>There are some of every sort, rich and poor, envious and
envied,<br>
 philosophers and dreamers, all grouped like the plants in a
flower-bed<br>
 round the rare, choice blossom, the bride. A wedding-ball is
an<br>
 epitome of the world.</p>

<p>At the liveliest moment of the evening Crevel led the Baron
aside, and<br>
 said in a whisper, with the most natural manner possible:</p>

<p>"By Jove! that's a pretty woman--the little lady in pink who
has<br>
 opened a racking fire on you from her eyes."</p>

<p>"Which?"</p>

<p>"The wife of that clerk you are promoting, heaven knows
how!--Madame<br>
 Marneffe."</p>

<p>"What do you know about it?"</p>

<p>"Listen, Hulot; I will try to forgive you the ill you have
done me if<br>
 only you will introduce me to her--I will take you to
Heloise.<br>
 Everybody is asking who is that charming creature. Are you sure
that<br>
 it will strike no one how and why her husband's appointment got
itself<br>
 signed?--You happy rascal, she is worth a whole office.--I would
serve<br>
 in her office only too gladly.--Come, cinna, let us be
friends."</p>

<p>"Better friends than ever," said the Baron to the perfumer,
"and I<br>
 promise you I will be a good fellow. Within a month you shall
dine<br>
 with that little angel.--For it is an angel this time, old boy.
And I<br>
 advise you, like me, to have done with the devils."</p>

<p>Cousin Betty, who had moved to the Rue Vanneau, into a nice
little<br>
 apartment on the third floor, left the ball at ten o'clock, but
came<br>
 back to see with her own eyes the two bonds bearing twelve
hundred<br>
 francs interest; one of them was the property of the
Countess<br>
 Steinbock, the other was in the name of Madame Hulot.</p>

<p>It is thus intelligible that Monsieur Crevel should have
spoken to<br>
 Hulot about Madame Marneffe, as knowing what was a secret to the
rest<br>
 of the world; for, as Monsieur Marneffe was away, no one but
Lisbeth<br>
 Fischer, besides the Baron and Valerie, was initiated into
the<br>
 mystery.</p>

<p>The Baron had made a blunder in giving Madame Marneffe a dress
far too<br>
 magnificent for the wife of a subordinate official; other women
were<br>
 jealous alike of her beauty and of her gown. There was much
whispering<br>
 behind fans, for the poverty of the Marneffes was known to every
one<br>
 in the office; the husband had been petitioning for help at the
very<br>
 moment when the Baron had been so smitten with madame. Also,
Hector<br>
 could not conceal his exultation at seeing Valerie's success;
and she,<br>
 severely proper, very lady-like, and greatly envied, was the
object of<br>
 that strict examination which women so greatly fear when they
appear<br>
 for the first time in a new circle of society.</p>

<p>After seeing his wife into a carriage with his daughter and
his son-<br>
 in-law, Hulot managed to escape unperceived, leaving his son
and<br>
 Celestine to do the honors of the house. He got into Madame
Marneffe's<br>
 carriage to see her home, but he found her silent and pensive,
almost<br>
 melancholy.</p>

<p>"My happiness makes you very sad, Valerie," said he, putting
his arm<br>
 round her and drawing her to him.</p>

<p>"Can you wonder, my dear," said she, "that a hapless woman
should be a<br>
 little depressed at the thought of her first fall from virtue,
even<br>
 when her husband's atrocities have set her free? Do you suppose
that I<br>
 have no soul, no beliefs, no religion? Your glee this evening
has been<br>
 really too barefaced; you have paraded me odiously. Really,
a<br>
 schoolboy would have been less of a coxcomb. And the ladies
have<br>
 dissected me with their side-glances and their satirical
remarks.<br>
 Every woman has some care for her reputation, and you have
wrecked<br>
 mine.</p>

<p>"Oh, I am yours and no mistake! And I have not an excuse left
but that<br>
 of being faithful to you.--Monster that you are!" she added,
laughing,<br>
 and allowing him to kiss her, "you knew very well what you were
doing!<br>
 Madame Coquet, our chief clerk's wife, came to sit down by me,
and<br>
 admired my lace. 'English point!' said she. 'Was it very
expensive,<br>
 madame?'--'I do not know. This lace was my mother's. I am not
rich<br>
 enough to buy the like,' said I."</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe, in short, had so bewitched the old beau, that
he<br>
 really believed she was sinning for the first time for his sake,
and<br>
 that he had inspired such a passion as had led her to this
breach of<br>
 duty. She told him that the wretch Marneffe had neglected her
after<br>
 they had been three days married, and for the most odious
reasons.<br>
 Since then she had lived as innocently as a girl; marriage had
seemed<br>
 to her so horrible. This was the cause of her present
melancholy.</p>

<p>"If love should prove to be like marriage----" said she in
tears.</p>

<p>These insinuating lies, with which almost every woman in
Valerie's<br>
 predicament is ready, gave the Baron distant visions of the
roses of<br>
 the seventh heaven. And so Valerie coquetted with her lover,
while the<br>
 artist and Hortense were impatiently awaiting the moment when
the<br>
 Baroness should have given the girl her last kiss and
blessing.</p>

<p>At seven in the morning the Baron, perfectly happy--for his
Valerie<br>
 was at once the most guileless of girls and the most consummate
of<br>
 demons--went back to release his son and Celestine from their
duties.<br>
 All the dancers, for the most part strangers, had taken
possession of<br>
 the territory, as they do at every wedding-ball, and were
keeping up<br>
 the endless figures of the cotillions, while the gamblers were
still<br>
 crowding round the <i>bouillotte</i> tables, and old Crevel had
won six<br>
 thousand francs.</p>

<p>The morning papers, carried round the town, contained this
paragraph<br>
 in the Paris article:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"The marriage was celebrated this morning, at the Church of
Saint-<br>
 Thomas d'Aquin, between Monsieur le Comte Steinbock and<br>
 Mademoiselle Hortense Hulot, daughter of Baron Hulot d'Ervy,<br>
 Councillor of State, and a Director at the War Office; niece
of<br>
 the famous General Comte de Forzheim. The ceremony attracted
a<br>
 large gathering. There were present some of the most
distinguished<br>
 artists of the day: Leon de Lora, Joseph Bridau, Stidmann,
and<br>
 Bixiou; the magnates of the War Office, of the Council of
State,<br>
 and many members of the two Chambers; also the most
distinguished<br>
 of the Polish exiles living in Paris: Counts Paz, Laginski,
and<br>
 others.</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Comte Wenceslas Steinbock is grandnephew to
the<br>
 famous general who served under Charles XII., King of Sweden.
The<br>
 young Count, having taken part in the Polish rebellion, found
a<br>
 refuge in France, where his well-earned fame as a sculptor
has<br>
 procured him a patent of naturalization."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>And so, in spite of the Baron's cruel lack of money, nothing
was<br>
 lacking that public opinion could require, not even the
trumpeting of<br>
 the newspapers over his daughter's marriage, which was
solemnized in<br>
 the same way, in every particular, as his son's had been to<br>
 Mademoiselle Crevel. This display moderated the reports current
as to<br>
 the Baron's financial position, while the fortune assigned to
his<br>
 daughter explained the need for having borrowed money.</p>

<p><br>
 Here ends what is, in a way, the introduction to this story. It
is to<br>
 the drama that follows that the premise is to a syllogism, what
the<br>
 prologue is to a classical tragedy.</p>

<p>In Paris, when a woman determines to make a business, a trade,
of her<br>
 beauty, it does not follow that she will make a fortune.
Lovely<br>
 creatures may be found there, and full of wit, who are in
wretched<br>
 circumstances, ending in misery a life begun in pleasure. And
this is<br>
 why. It is not enough merely to accept the shameful life of
a<br>
 courtesan with a view to earning its profits, and at the same
time to<br>
 bear the simple garb of a respectable middle-class wife. Vice
does not<br>
 triumph so easily; it resembles genius in so far that they both
need a<br>
 concurrence of favorable conditions to develop the coalition
of<br>
 fortune and gifts. Eliminate the strange prologue of the
Revolution,<br>
 and the Emperor would never have existed; he would have been no
more<br>
 than a second edition of Fabert. Venal beauty, if it finds
no<br>
 amateurs, no celebrity, no cross of dishonor earned by
squandering<br>
 men's fortunes, is Correggio in a hay-loft, is genius starving
in a<br>
 garret. Lais, in Paris, must first and foremost find a rich man
mad<br>
 enough to pay her price. She must keep up a very elegant style,
for<br>
 this is her shop-sign; she must be sufficiently well bred to
flatter<br>
 the vanity of her lovers; she must have the brilliant wit of a
Sophie<br>
 Arnould, which diverts the apathy of rich men; finally, she
must<br>
 arouse the passions of libertines by appearing to be mistress to
one<br>
 man only who is envied by the rest.</p>

<p>These conditions, which a woman of that class calls being in
luck, are<br>
 difficult to combine in Paris, although it is a city of
millionaires,<br>
 of idlers, of used-up and capricious men.</p>

<p>Providence has, no doubt, vouchsafed protection to clerks and
middle-<br>
 class citizens, for whom obstacles of this kind are at least
double in<br>
 the sphere in which they move. At the same time, there are
enough<br>
 Madame Marneffes in Paris to allow of our taking Valerie to
figure as<br>
 a type in this picture of manners. Some of these women yield to
the<br>
 double pressure of a genuine passion and of hard necessity,
like<br>
 Madame Colleville, who was for long attached to one of the
famous<br>
 orators of the left, Keller the banker. Others are spurred by
vanity,<br>
 like Madame de la Baudraye, who remained almost respectable in
spite<br>
 of her elopement with Lousteau. Some, again, are led astray by
the<br>
 love of fine clothes, and some by the impossibility of keeping a
house<br>
 going on obviously too narrow means. The stinginess of the
State--or<br>
 of Parliament--leads to many disasters and to much
corruption.</p>

<p>At the present moment the laboring classes are the fashionable
object<br>
 of compassion; they are being murdered--it is said--by the<br>
 manufacturing capitalist; but the Government is a hundred times
harder<br>
 than the meanest tradesman, it carries its economy in the
article of<br>
 salaries to absolute folly. If you work harder, the merchant
will pay<br>
 you more in proportion; but what does the State do for its crowd
of<br>
 obscure and devoted toilers?</p>

<p>In a married woman it is an inexcusable crime when she wanders
from<br>
 the path of honor; still, there are degrees even in such a case.
Some<br>
 women, far from being depraved, conceal their fall and remain to
all<br>
 appearances quite respectable, like those two just referred to,
while<br>
 others add to their fault the disgrace of speculation. Thus
Madame<br>
 Marneffe is, as it were, the type of those ambitious married<br>
 courtesans who from the first accept depravity with all its<br>
 consequences, and determine to make a fortune while taking
their<br>
 pleasure, perfectly unscrupulous as to the means. But almost
always a<br>
 woman like Madame Marneffe has a husband who is her confederate
and<br>
 accomplice. These Machiavellis in petticoats are the most
dangerous of<br>
 the sisterhood; of every evil class of Parisian woman, they are
the<br>
 worst.</p>

<p>A mere courtesan--a Josepha, a Malaga, a Madame Schontz, a
Jenny<br>
 Cadine--carries in her frank dishonor a warning signal as
conspicuous<br>
 as the red lamp of a house of ill-fame or the flaring lights of
a<br>
 gambling hell. A man knows that they light him to his ruin.</p>

<p>But mealy-mouthed propriety, the semblance of virtue, the
hypocritical<br>
 ways of a married woman who never allows anything to be seen but
the<br>
 vulgar needs of the household, and affects to refuse every kind
of<br>
 extravagance, leads to silent ruin, dumb disaster, which is all
the<br>
 more startling because, though condoned, it remains unaccounted
for.<br>
 It is the ignoble bill of daily expenses and not gay dissipation
that<br>
 devours the largest fortune. The father of a family ruins
himself<br>
 ingloriously, and the great consolation of gratified vanity is
wanting<br>
 in his misery.</p>

<p>This little sermon will go like a javelin to the heart of many
a home.<br>
 Madame Marneffes are to be seen in every sphere of social life,
even<br>
 at Court; for Valerie is a melancholy fact, modeled from the
life in<br>
 the smallest details. And, alas! the portrait will not cure any
man of<br>
 the folly of loving these sweetly-smiling angels, with pensive
looks<br>
 and candid faces, whose heart is a cash-box.</p>

<p>About three years after Hortense's marriage, in 1841, Baron
Hulot<br>
 d'Ervy was supposed to have sown his wild oats, to have "put up
his<br>
 horses," to quote the expression used by Louis XV.'s head
surgeon, and<br>
 yet Madame Marneffe was costing him twice as much as Josepha had
ever<br>
 cost him. Still, Valerie, though always nicely dressed, affected
the<br>
 simplicity of a subordinate official's wife; she kept her luxury
for<br>
 her dressing-gowns, her home wear. She thus sacrificed her
Parisian<br>
 vanity to her dear Hector. At the theatre, however, she
always<br>
 appeared in a pretty bonnet and a dress of extreme elegance; and
the<br>
 Baron took her in a carriage to a private box.</p>

<p>Her rooms, the whole of the second floor of a modern house in
the Rue<br>
 Vanneau, between a fore-court and a garden, was redolent of<br>
 respectability. All its luxury was in good chintz hangings
and<br>
 handsome convenient furniture.</p>

<p>Her bedroom, indeed, was the exception, and rich with such
profusion<br>
 as Jenny Cadine or Madame Schontz might have displayed. There
were<br>
 lace curtains, cashmere hangings, brocade portieres, a set of
chimney<br>
 ornaments modeled by Stidmann, a glass cabinet filled with
dainty<br>
 nicknacks. Hulot could not bear to see his Valerie in a bower
of<br>
 inferior magnificence to the dunghill of gold and pearls owned
by a<br>
 Josepha. The drawing-room was furnished with red damask, and
the<br>
 dining-room had carved oak panels. But the Baron, carried away
by his<br>
 wish to have everything in keeping, had at the end of six
months,<br>
 added solid luxury to mere fashion, and had given her
handsome<br>
 portable property, as, for instance, a service of plate that was
to<br>
 cost more than twenty-four thousand francs.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe's house had in a couple of years achieved a
reputation<br>
 for being a very pleasant one. Gambling went on there. Valerie
herself<br>
 was soon spoken of as an agreeable and witty woman. To account
for her<br>
 change of style, a rumor was set going of an immense legacy
bequeathed<br>
 to her by her "natural father," Marshal Montcornet, and left in
trust.</p>

<p>With an eye to the future, Valerie had added religious to
social<br>
 hypocrisy. Punctual at the Sunday services, she enjoyed all the
honors<br>
 due to the pious. She carried the bag for the offertory, she was
a<br>
 member of a charitable association, presented bread for the
sacrament,<br>
 and did some good among the poor, all at Hector's expense.
Thus<br>
 everything about the house was extremely seemly. And a great
many<br>
 persons maintained that her friendship with the Baron was
entirely<br>
 innocent, supporting the view by the gentleman's mature age,
and<br>
 ascribing to him a Platonic liking for Madame Marneffe's
pleasant wit,<br>
 charming manners, and conversation--such a liking as that of the
late<br>
 lamented Louis XVIII. for a well-turned note.</p>

<p>The Baron always withdrew with the other company at about
midnight,<br>
 and came back a quarter of an hour later.</p>

<p>The secret of this secrecy was as follows. The lodge-keepers
of the<br>
 house were a Monsieur and Madame Olivier, who, under the
Baron's<br>
 patronage, had been promoted from their humble and not very
lucrative<br>
 post in the Rue du Doyenne to the highly-paid and handsome one
in the<br>
 Rue Vanneau. Now, Madame Olivier, formerly a needlewoman in
the<br>
 household of Charles X., who had fallen in the world with
the<br>
 legitimate branch, had three children. The eldest, an
under-clerk in a<br>
 notary's office, was object of his parents' adoration. This
Benjamin,<br>
 for six years in danger of being drawn for the army, was on the
point<br>
 of being interrupted in his legal career, when Madame
Marneffe<br>
 contrived to have him declared exempt for one of those
little<br>
 malformations which the Examining Board can always discern
when<br>
 requested in a whisper by some power in the ministry. So
Olivier,<br>
 formerly a huntsman to the King, and his wife would have
crucified the<br>
 Lord again for the Baron or for Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>What could the world have to say? It knew nothing of the
former<br>
 episode of the Brazilian, Monsieur Montes de Montejanos--it
could say<br>
 nothing. Besides, the world is very indulgent to the mistress of
a<br>
 house where amusement is to be found.</p>

<p>And then to all her charms Valerie added the highly-prized
advantage<br>
 of being an occult power. Claude Vignon, now secretary to
Marshal the<br>
 Prince de Wissembourg, and dreaming of promotion to the Council
of<br>
 State as a Master of Appeals, was constantly seen in her rooms,
to<br>
 which came also some Deputies--good fellows and gamblers.
Madame<br>
 Marneffe had got her circle together with prudent deliberation;
only<br>
 men whose opinions and habits agreed foregathered there, men
whose<br>
 interest it was to hold together and to proclaim the many merits
of<br>
 the lady of the house. Scandal is the true Holy Alliance in
Paris.<br>
 Take that as an axiom. Interests invariably fall asunder in the
end;<br>
 vicious natures can always agree.</p>

<p>Within three months of settling in the Rue Vanneau, Madame
Marneffe<br>
 had entertained Monsieur Crevel, who by that time was Mayor of
his<br>
 <i>arrondissement</i> and Officer of the Legion of Honor. Crevel
had<br>
 hesitated; he would have to give up the famous uniform of the
National<br>
 Guard in which he strutted at the Tuileries, believing himself
quite<br>
 as much a soldier as the Emperor himself; but ambition, urged
by<br>
 Madame Marneffe, had proved stronger than vanity. Then Monsieur
le<br>
 Maire had considered his connection with Mademoiselle
Heloise<br>
 Brisetout as quite incompatible with his political position.</p>

<p>Indeed, long before his accession to the civic chair of the
Mayoralty,<br>
 his gallant intimacies had been wrapped in the deepest mystery.
But,<br>
 as the reader may have guessed, Crevel had soon purchased the
right of<br>
 taking his revenge, as often as circumstances allowed, for
having been<br>
 bereft of Josepha, at the cost of a bond bearing six thousand
francs<br>
 of interest in the name of Valerie Fortin, wife of Sieur
Marneffe, for<br>
 her sole and separate use. Valerie, inheriting perhaps from her
mother<br>
 the special acumen of the kept woman, read the character of
her<br>
 grotesque adorer at a glance. The phrase "I never had a lady for
a<br>
 mistress," spoken by Crevel to Lisbeth, and repeated by Lisbeth
to her<br>
 dear Valerie, had been handsomely discounted in the bargain by
which<br>
 she got her six thousand francs a year in five per cents. And
since<br>
 then she had never allowed her prestige to grow less in the eyes
of<br>
 Cesar Birotteau's erewhile bagman.</p>

<p>Crevel himself had married for money the daughter of a miller
of la<br>
 Brie, an only child indeed, whose inheritance constituted
three-<br>
 quarters of his fortune; for when retail-dealers grow rich, it
is<br>
 generally not so much by trade as through some alliance between
the<br>
 shop and rural thrift. A large proportion of the farmers,
corn-<br>
 factors, dairy-keepers, and market-gardeners in the neighborhood
of<br>
 Paris, dream of the glories of the desk for their daughters, and
look<br>
 upon a shopkeeper, a jeweler, or a money-changer as a son-in-law
after<br>
 their own heart, in preference to a notary or an attorney,
whose<br>
 superior social position is a ground of suspicion; they are
afraid of<br>
 being scorned in the future by these citizen bigwigs.</p>

<p>Madame Crevel, ugly, vulgar, and silly, had given her husband
no<br>
 pleasures but those of paternity; she died young. Her
libertine<br>
 husband, fettered at the beginning of his commercial career by
the<br>
 necessity for working, and held in thrall by want of money, had
led<br>
 the life of Tantalus. Thrown in--as he phrased it--with the
most<br>
 elegant women in Paris, he let them out of the shop with
servile<br>
 homage, while admiring their grace, their way of wearing the
fashions,<br>
 and all the nameless charms of what is called breeding. To rise
to the<br>
 level of one of these fairies of the drawing-room was a desire
formed<br>
 in his youth, but buried in the depths of his heart. Thus to win
the<br>
 favors of Madame Marneffe was to him not merely the realization
of his<br>
 chimera, but, as has been shown, a point of pride, of vanity, of
self-<br>
 satisfaction. His ambition grew with success; his brain was
turned<br>
 with elation; and when the mind is captivated, the heart feels
more<br>
 keenly, every gratification is doubled.</p>

<p>Also, it must be said that Madame Marneffe offered to Crevel
a<br>
 refinement of pleasure of which he had no idea; neither Josepha
nor<br>
 Heloise had loved him; and Madame Marneffe thought it necessary
to<br>
 deceive him thoroughly, for this man, she saw, would prove
an<br>
 inexhaustible till. The deceptions of a venal passion are
more<br>
 delightful than the real thing. True love is mixed up with
birdlike<br>
 squabbles, in which the disputants wound each other to the
quick; but<br>
 a quarrel without animus is, on the contrary, a piece of
flattery to<br>
 the dupe's conceit.</p>

<p>The rare interviews granted to Crevel kept his passion at
white heat.<br>
 He was constantly blocked by Valerie's virtuous severity; she
acted<br>
 remorse, and wondered what her father must be thinking of her in
the<br>
 paradise of the brave. Again and again he had to contend with a
sort<br>
 of coldness, which the cunning slut made him believe he had
overcome<br>
 by seeming to surrender to the man's crazy passion; and then, as
if<br>
 ashamed, she entrenched herself once more in her pride of<br>
 respectability and airs of virtue, just like an Englishwoman,
neither<br>
 more nor less; and she always crushed her Crevel under the
weight of<br>
 her dignity--for Crevel had, in the first instance, swallowed
her<br>
 pretensions to virtue.</p>

<p>In short, Valerie had special veins of affections which made
her<br>
 equally indispensable to Crevel and to the Baron. Before the
world she<br>
 displayed the attractive combination of modest and pensive
innocence,<br>
 of irreproachable propriety, with a bright humor enhanced by
the<br>
 suppleness, the grace and softness of the Creole; but in a
<i>tete-a-<br>
</i> <i>tete</i> she would outdo any courtesan; she was
audacious, amusing, and<br>
 full of original inventiveness. Such a contrast is irresistible
to a<br>
 man of the Crevel type; he is flattered by believing himself
sole<br>
 author of the comedy, thinking it is performed for his benefit
alone,<br>
 and he laughs at the exquisite hypocrisy while admiring the
hypocrite.</p>

<p><br>
 Valerie had taken entire possession of Baron Hulot; she had
persuaded<br>
 him to grow old by one of those subtle touches of flattery
which<br>
 reveal the diabolical wit of women like her. In all
evergreen<br>
 constitutions a moment arrives when the truth suddenly comes
out, as<br>
 in a besieged town which puts a good face on affairs as long
as<br>
 possible. Valerie, foreseeing the approaching collapse of the
old beau<br>
 of the Empire, determined to forestall it.</p>

<p>"Why give yourself so much bother, my dear old veteran?" said
she one<br>
 day, six months after their doubly adulterous union. "Do you
want to<br>
 be flirting? To be unfaithful to me? I assure you, I should like
you<br>
 better without your make-up. Oblige me by giving up all your<br>
 artificial charms. Do you suppose that it is for two sous' worth
of<br>
 polish on your boots that I love you? For your india-rubber
belt, your<br>
 strait-waistcoat, and your false hair? And then, the older you
look,<br>
 the less need I fear seeing my Hulot carried off by a
rival."</p>

<p>And Hulot, trusting to Madame Marneffe's heavenly friendship
as much<br>
 as to her love, intending, too, to end his days with her, had
taken<br>
 this confidential hint, and ceased to dye his whiskers and hair.
After<br>
 this touching declaration from his Valerie, handsome Hector made
his<br>
 appearance one morning perfectly white. Madame Marneffe could
assure<br>
 him that she had a hundred times detected the white line of the
growth<br>
 of the hair.</p>

<p>"And white hair suits your face to perfection," said she; "it
softens<br>
 it. You look a thousand times better, quite charming."</p>

<p>The Baron, once started on this path of reform, gave up his
leather<br>
 waistcoat and stays; he threw off all his bracing. His stomach
fell<br>
 and increased in size. The oak became a tower, and the heaviness
of<br>
 his movements was all the more alarming because the Baron
grew<br>
 immensely older by playing the part of Louis XII. His eyebrows
were<br>
 still black, and left a ghostly reminiscence of Handsome Hulot,
as<br>
 sometimes on the wall of some feudal building a faint trace
of<br>
 sculpture remains to show what the castle was in the days of
its<br>
 glory. This discordant detail made his eyes, still bright
and<br>
 youthful, all the more remarkable in his tanned face, because it
had<br>
 so long been ruddy with the florid hues of a Rubens; and now a
certain<br>
 discoloration and the deep tension of the wrinkles betrayed
the<br>
 efforts of a passion at odds with natural decay. Hulot was now
one of<br>
 those stalwart ruins in which virile force asserts itself by
tufts of<br>
 hair in the ears and nostrils and on the fingers, as moss grows
on the<br>
 almost eternal monuments of the Roman Empire.</p>

<p>How had Valerie contrived to keep Crevel and Hulot side by
side, each<br>
 tied to an apron-string, when the vindictive Mayor only longed
to<br>
 triumph openly over Hulot? Without immediately giving an answer
to<br>
 this question, which the course of the story will supply, it may
be<br>
 said that Lisbeth and Valerie had contrived a powerful piece
of<br>
 machinery which tended to this result. Marneffe, as he saw his
wife<br>
 improved in beauty by the setting in which she was enthroned,
like the<br>
 sun at the centre of the sidereal system, appeared, in the eyes
of the<br>
 world, to have fallen in love with her again himself; he was
quite<br>
 crazy about her. Now, though his jealousy made him somewhat of
a<br>
 marplot, it gave enhanced value to Valerie's favors.
Marneffe<br>
 meanwhile showed a blind confidence in his chief, which
degenerated<br>
 into ridiculous complaisance. The only person whom he really
would not<br>
 stand was Crevel.</p>

<p>Marneffe, wrecked by the debauchery of great cities, described
by<br>
 Roman authors, though modern decency has no name for it, was
as<br>
 hideous as an anatomical figure in wax. But this disease on
feet,<br>
 clothed in good broadcloth, encased his lathlike legs in
elegant<br>
 trousers. The hollow chest was scented with fine linen, and
musk<br>
 disguised the odors of rotten humanity. This hideous specimen
of<br>
 decaying vice, trotting in red heels--for Valerie dressed the
man as<br>
 beseemed his income, his cross, and his appointment--horrified
Crevel,<br>
 who could not meet the colorless eyes of the Government
clerk.<br>
 Marneffe was an incubus to the Mayor. And the mean rascal, aware
of<br>
 the strange power conferred on him by Lisbeth and his wife, was
amused<br>
 by it; he played on it as on an instrument; and cards being the
last<br>
 resource of a mind as completely played out as the body, he
plucked<br>
 Crevel again and again, the Mayor thinking himself bound to<br>
 subserviency to the worthy official whom <i>he was
cheating.</i></p>

<p>Seeing Crevel a mere child in the hands of that hideous and
atrocious<br>
 mummy, of whose utter vileness the Mayor knew nothing; and
seeing him,<br>
 yet more, an object of deep contempt to Valerie, who made game
of<br>
 Crevel as of some mountebank, the Baron apparently thought him
so<br>
 impossible as a rival that he constantly invited him to
dinner.</p>

<p>Valerie, protected by two lovers on guard, and by a jealous
husband,<br>
 attracted every eye, and excited every desire in the circle she
shone<br>
 upon. And thus, while keeping up appearances, she had, in the
course<br>
 of three years, achieved the most difficult conditions of the
success<br>
 a courtesan most cares for and most rarely attains, even with
the help<br>
 of audacity and the glitter of an existence in the light of the
sun.<br>
 Valerie's beauty, formerly buried in the mud of the Rue du
Doyenne,<br>
 now, like a well-cut diamond exquisitely set by Chanor, was
worth more<br>
 than its real value--it could break hearts. Claude Vignon
adored<br>
 Valerie in secret.</p>

<p>This retrospective explanation, quite necessary after the
lapse of<br>
 three years, shows Valerie's balance-sheet. Now for that of
her<br>
 partner, Lisbeth.</p>

<p>Lisbeth Fischer filled the place in the Marneffe household of
a<br>
 relation who combines the functions of a lady companion and
a<br>
 housekeeper; but she suffered from none of the humiliations
which, for<br>
 the most part, weigh upon the women who are so unhappy as to
be<br>
 obliged to fill these ambiguous situations. Lisbeth and
Valerie<br>
 offered the touching spectacle of one of those friendships
between<br>
 women, so cordial and so improbable, that men, always too
keen-tongued<br>
 in Paris, forthwith slander them. The contrast between Lisbeth's
dry<br>
 masculine nature and Valerie's creole prettiness encouraged
calumny.<br>
 And Madame Marneffe had unconsciously given weight to the
scandal by<br>
 the care she took of her friend, with matrimonial views, which
were,<br>
 as will be seen, to complete Lisbeth's revenge.</p>

<p>An immense change had taken place in Cousin Betty; and
Valerie, who<br>
 wanted to smarten her, had turned it to the best account. The
strange<br>
 woman had submitted to stays, and laced tightly, she used
bandoline to<br>
 keep her hair smooth, wore her gowns as the dressmaker sent them
home,<br>
 neat little boots, and gray silk stockings, all of which were
included<br>
 in Valerie's bills, and paid for by the gentleman in possession.
Thus<br>
 furbished up, and wearing the yellow cashmere shawl, Lisbeth
would<br>
 have been unrecognizable by any one who had not seen her for
three<br>
 years.</p>

<p>This other diamond--a black diamond, the rarest of all--cut by
a<br>
 skilled hand, and set as best became her, was appreciated at her
full<br>
 value by certain ambitious clerks. Any one seeing her for the
first<br>
 time might have shuddered involuntarily at the look of poetic
wildness<br>
 which the clever Valerie had succeeded in bringing out by the
arts of<br>
 dress in this Bleeding Nun, framing the ascetic olive face in
thick<br>
 bands of hair as black as the fiery eyes, and making the most of
the<br>
 rigid, slim figure. Lisbeth, like a Virgin by Cranach or Van
Eyck, or<br>
 a Byzantine Madonna stepped out of its frame, had all the
stiffness,<br>
 the precision of those mysterious figures, the more modern
cousins of<br>
 Isis and her sister goddesses sheathed in marble folds by
Egyptian<br>
 sculptors. It was granite, basalt, porphyry, with life and
movement.</p>

<p>Saved from want for the rest of her life, Lisbeth was most
amiable;<br>
 wherever she dined she brought merriment. And the Baron paid the
rent<br>
 of her little apartment, furnished, as we know, with the
leavings of<br>
 her friend Valerie's former boudoir and bedroom.</p>

<p>"I began," she would say, "as a hungry nanny goat, and I am
ending as<br>
 a <i>lionne</i>."</p>

<p>She still worked for Monsieur Rivet at the more elaborate
kinds of<br>
 gold-trimming, merely, as she said, not to lose her time. At the
same<br>
 time, she was, as we shall see, very full of business; but it
is<br>
 inherent in the nature of country-folks never to give up
bread-<br>
 winning; in this they are like the Jews.</p>

<p>Every morning, very early, Cousin Betty went off to market
with the<br>
 cook. It was part of Lisbeth's scheme that the house-book, which
was<br>
 ruining Baron Hulot, was to enrich her dear Valerie--as it did
indeed.</p>

<p>Is there a housewife who, since 1838, has not suffered from
the evil<br>
 effects of Socialist doctrines diffused among the lower classes
by<br>
 incendiary writers? In every household the plague of servants
is<br>
 nowadays the worst of financial afflictions. With very few
exceptions,<br>
 who ought to be rewarded with the Montyon prize, the cook, male
or<br>
 female, is a domestic robber, a thief taking wages, and
perfectly<br>
 barefaced, with the Government for a fence, developing the
tendency to<br>
 dishonesty, which is almost authorized in the cook by the
time-honored<br>
 jest as to the "handle of the basket." The women who formerly
picked<br>
 up their forty sous to buy a lottery ticket now take fifty
francs to<br>
 put into the savings bank. And the smug Puritans who amuse
themselves<br>
 in France with philanthropic experiments fancy that they are
making<br>
 the common people moral!</p>

<p>Between the market and the master's table the servants have
their<br>
 secret toll, and the municipality of Paris is less sharp in
collecting<br>
 the city-dues than the servants are in taking theirs on every
single<br>
 thing. To say nothing of fifty per cent charged on every form of
food,<br>
 they demand large New Year's premiums from the tradesmen. The
best<br>
 class of dealers tremble before this occult power, and subsidize
it<br>
 without a word--coachmakers, jewelers, tailors, and all. If
any<br>
 attempt is made to interfere with them, the servants reply
with<br>
 impudent retorts, or revenge themselves by the costly blunders
of<br>
 assumed clumsiness; and in these days they inquire into their
master's<br>
 character as, formerly, the master inquired into theirs. This
mischief<br>
 is now really at its height, and the law-courts are beginning to
take<br>
 cognizance of it; but in vain, for it cannot be remedied but by
a law<br>
 which shall compel domestic servants, like laborers, to have a
pass-<br>
 book as a guarantee of conduct. Then the evil will vanish as if
by<br>
 magic. If every servant were obliged to show his pass-book, and
if<br>
 masters were required to state in it the cause of his dismissal,
this<br>
 would certainly prove a powerful check to the evil.</p>

<p>The men who are giving their attentions to the politics of the
day<br>
 know not to what lengths the depravity of the lower classes has
gone.<br>
 Statistics are silent as to the startling number of working men
of<br>
 twenty who marry cooks of between forty and fifty enriched by
robbery.<br>
 We shudder to think of the result of such unions from the three
points<br>
 of view of increasing crime, degeneracy of the race, and
miserable<br>
 households.</p>

<p>As to the mere financial mischief that results from
domestic<br>
 peculation, that too is immense from a political point of view.
Life<br>
 being made to cost double, any superfluity becomes impossible in
most<br>
 households. Now superfluity means half the trade of the world,
as it<br>
 is half the elegance of life. Books and flowers are to many
persons as<br>
 necessary as bread.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, well aware of this dreadful scourge of Parisian
households,<br>
 determined to manage Valerie's, promising her every assistance
in the<br>
 terrible scene when the two women had sworn to be like sisters.
So she<br>
 had brought from the depths of the Vosges a humble relation on
her<br>
 mother's side, a very pious and honest soul, who had been cook
to the<br>
 Bishop of Nancy. Fearing, however, her inexperience of Paris
ways, and<br>
 yet more the evil counsel which wrecks such fragile virtue, at
first<br>
 Lisbeth always went to market with Mathurine, and tried to teach
her<br>
 what to buy. To know the real prices of things and command
the<br>
 salesman's respect; to purchase unnecessary delicacies, such as
fish,<br>
 only when they were cheap; to be well informed as to the price
current<br>
 of groceries and provisions, so as to buy when prices are low
in<br>
 anticipation of a rise,--all this housekeeping skill is in
Paris<br>
 essential to domestic economy. As Mathurine got good wages and
many<br>
 presents, she liked the house well enough to be glad to drive
good<br>
 bargains. And by this time Lisbeth had made her quite a match
for<br>
 herself, sufficiently experienced and trustworthy to be sent to
market<br>
 alone, unless Valerie was giving a dinner--which, in fact, was
not<br>
 unfrequently the case. And this was how it came about.</p>

<p>The Baron had at first observed the strictest decorum; but his
passion<br>
 for Madame Marneffe had ere long become so vehement, so greedy,
that<br>
 he would never quit her if he could help it. At first he dined
there<br>
 four times a week; then he thought it delightful to dine with
her<br>
 every day. Six months after his daughter's marriage he was
paying her<br>
 two thousand francs a month for his board. Madame Marneffe
invited any<br>
 one her dear Baron wished to entertain. The dinner was always
arranged<br>
 for six; he could bring in three unexpected guests. Lisbeth's
economy<br>
 enabled her to solve the extraordinary problem of keeping up the
table<br>
 in the best style for a thousand francs a month, giving the
other<br>
 thousand to Madame Marneffe. Valerie's dress being chiefly paid
for by<br>
 Crevel and the Baron, the two women saved another thousand
francs a<br>
 month on this.</p>

<p>And so this pure and innocent being had already accumulated a
hundred<br>
 and fifty thousand francs in savings. She had capitalized her
income<br>
 and monthly bonus, and swelled the amount by enormous interest,
due to<br>
 Crevel's liberality in allowing his "little Duchess" to invest
her<br>
 money in partnership with him in his financial operations.
Crevel had<br>
 taught Valerie the slang and the procedure of the money market,
and,<br>
 like every Parisian woman, she had soon outstripped her
master.<br>
 Lisbeth, who never spent a sou of her twelve hundred francs,
whose<br>
 rent and dress were given to her, and who never put her hand in
her<br>
 pocket, had likewise a small capital of five or six thousand
francs,<br>
 of which Crevel took fatherly care.</p>

<p>At the same time, two such lovers were a heavy burthen on
Valerie. On<br>
 the day when this drama reopens, Valerie, spurred by one of
those<br>
 incidents which have the effect in life that the ringing of a
bell has<br>
 in inducing a swarm of bees to settle, went up to Lisbeth's
rooms to<br>
 give vent to one of those comforting lamentations--a sort of
cigarette<br>
 blown off from the tongue--by which women alleviate the minor
miseries<br>
 of life.</p>

<p>"Oh, Lisbeth, my love, two hours of Crevel this morning! It
is<br>
 crushing! How I wish I could send you in my place!"</p>

<p>"That, unluckily, is impossible," said Lisbeth, smiling. "I
shall die<br>
 a maid."</p>

<p>"Two old men lovers! Really, I am ashamed sometimes! If my
poor mother<br>
 could see me."</p>

<p>"You are mistaking me for Crevel!" said Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Tell me, my little Betty, do you not despise me?"</p>

<p>"Oh! if I had but been pretty, what adventures I would have
had!"<br>
 cried Lisbeth. "That is your justification."</p>

<p>"But you would have acted only at the dictates of your heart,"
said<br>
 Madame Marneffe, with a sigh.</p>

<p>"Pooh! Marneffe is a dead man they have forgotten to bury,"
replied<br>
 Lisbeth. "The Baron is as good as your husband; Crevel is your
adorer;<br>
 it seems to me that you are quite in order--like every other
married<br>
 woman."</p>

<p>"No, it is not that, dear, adorable thing; that is not where
the shoe<br>
 pinches; you do not choose to understand."</p>

<p>"Yes, I do," said Lisbeth. "The unexpressed factor is part of
my<br>
 revenge; what can I do? I am working it out."</p>

<p>"I love Wenceslas so that I am positively growing thin, and I
can<br>
 never see him," said Valerie, throwing up her arms. "Hulot asks
him to<br>
 dinner, and my artist declines. He does not know that I idolize
him,<br>
 the wretch! What is his wife after all? Fine flesh! Yes, she
is<br>
 handsome, but I--I know myself--I am worse!"</p>

<p>"Be quite easy, my child, he will come," said Lisbeth, in the
tone of<br>
 a nurse to an impatient child. "He shall."</p>

<p>"But when?"</p>

<p>"This week perhaps."</p>

<p>"Give me a kiss."</p>

<p>As may be seen, these two women were but one. Everything
Valerie did,<br>
 even her most reckless actions, her pleasures, her little sulks,
were<br>
 decided on after serious deliberation between them.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, strangely excited by this harlot existence, advised
Valerie<br>
 on every step, and pursued her course of revenge with pitiless
logic.<br>
 She really adored Valerie; she had taken her to be her child,
her<br>
 friend, her love; she found her docile, as Creoles are, yielding
from<br>
 voluptuous indolence; she chattered with her morning after
morning<br>
 with more pleasure than with Wenceslas; they could laugh
together over<br>
 the mischief they plotted, and over the folly of men, and count
up the<br>
 swelling interest on their respective savings.</p>

<p><br>
 Indeed in this new enterprise and new affection, Lisbeth had
found<br>
 food for her activity that was far more satisfying than her
insane<br>
 passion for Wenceslas. The joys of gratified hatred are the
fiercest<br>
 and strongest the heart can know. Love is the gold, hatred the
iron of<br>
 the mine of feeling that lies buried in us. And then, Valerie
was, to<br>
 Lisbeth, Beauty in all its glory--the beauty she worshiped, as
we<br>
 worship what we have not, beauty far more plastic to her hand
than<br>
 that of Wenceslas, who had always been cold to her and
distant.</p>

<p>At the end of nearly three years, Lisbeth was beginning to
perceive<br>
 the progress of the underground mine on which she was expending
her<br>
 life and concentrating her mind. Lisbeth planned, Madame
Marneffe<br>
 acted. Madame Marneffe was the axe, Lisbeth was the hand the
wielded<br>
 it, and that hand was rapidly demolishing the family which was
every<br>
 day more odious to her; for we can hate more and more, just as,
when<br>
 we love, we love better every day.</p>

<p>Love and hatred are feelings that feed on themselves; but of
the two,<br>
 hatred has the longer vitality. Love is restricted within limits
of<br>
 power; it derives its energies from life and from lavishness.
Hatred<br>
 is like death, like avarice; it is, so to speak, an active<br>
 abstraction, above beings and things.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, embarked on the existence that was natural to her,
expended<br>
 in it all her faculties; governing, like the Jesuits, by
occult<br>
 influences. The regeneration of her person was equally complete;
her<br>
 face was radiant. Lisbeth dreamed of becoming Madame la
Marechale<br>
 Hulot.</p>

<p>This little scene, in which the two friends had bluntly
uttered their<br>
 ideas without any circumlocution in expressing them, took
place<br>
 immediately on Lisbeth's return from market, whither she had
been to<br>
 procure the materials for an elegant dinner. Marneffe, who hoped
to<br>
 get Coquet's place, was to entertain him and the virtuous
Madame<br>
 Coquet, and Valerie hoped to persuade Hulot, that very evening,
to<br>
 consider the head-clerk's resignation.</p>

<p>Lisbeth dressed to go to the Baroness, with whom she was to
dine.</p>

<p>"You will come back in time to make tea for us, my Betty?"
said<br>
 Valerie.</p>

<p>"I hope so."</p>

<p>"You hope so--why? Have you come to sleeping with Adeline to
drink her<br>
 tears while she is asleep?"</p>

<p>"If only I could!" said Lisbeth, laughing. "I would not
refuse. She is<br>
 expiating her happiness--and I am glad, for I remember our young
days.<br>
 It is my turn now. She will be in the mire, and I shall be
Comtesse de<br>
 Forzheim!"</p>

<p>Lisbeth set out for the Rue Plumet, where she now went as to
the<br>
 theatre--to indulge her emotions.</p>

<p>The residence Hulot had found for his wife consisted of a
large, bare<br>
 entrance-room, a drawing-room, and a bed and dressing-room.
The<br>
 dining-room was next the drawing-room on one side. Two servants'
rooms<br>
 and a kitchen on the third floor completed the accommodation,
which<br>
 was not unworthy of a Councillor of State, high up in the War
Office.<br>
 The house, the court-yard, and the stairs were extremely
handsome.</p>

<p>The Baroness, who had to furnish her drawing-room, bed-room,
and<br>
 dining-room with the relics of her splendor, had brought away
the best<br>
 of the remains from the house in the Rue de l'Universite.
Indeed, the<br>
 poor woman was attached to these mute witnesses of her happier
life;<br>
 to her they had an almost consoling eloquence. In memory she saw
her<br>
 flowers, as in the carpets she could trace patterns hardly
visible now<br>
 to other eyes.</p>

<p>On going into the spacious anteroom, where twelve chairs, a
barometer,<br>
 a large stove, and long, white cotton curtains, bordered with
red,<br>
 suggested the dreadful waiting-room of a Government office,
the<br>
 visitor felt oppressed, conscious at once of the isolation in
which<br>
 the mistress lived. Grief, like pleasure, infects the
atmosphere. A<br>
 first glance into any home is enough to tell you whether love
or<br>
 despair reigns there.</p>

<p>Adeline would be found sitting in an immense bedroom with
beautiful<br>
 furniture by Jacob Desmalters, of mahogany finished in the
Empire<br>
 style with ormolu, which looks even less inviting than the
brass-work<br>
 of Louis XVI.! It gave one a shiver to see this lonely woman
sitting<br>
 on a Roman chair, a work-table with sphinxes before her,
colorless,<br>
 affecting false cheerfulness, but preserving her imperial air,
as she<br>
 had preserved the blue velvet gown she always wore in the house.
Her<br>
 proud spirit sustained her strength and preserved her
beauty.</p>

<p>The Baroness, by the end of her first year of banishment to
this<br>
 apartment, had gauged every depth of misfortune.</p>

<p>"Still, even here my Hector has made my life much handsomer
than it<br>
 should be for a mere peasant," said she to herself. "He chooses
that<br>
 it should be so; his will be done! I am Baroness Hulot, the
sister-in-<br>
 law of a Marshal of France. I have done nothing wrong; my two
children<br>
 are settled in life; I can wait for death, wrapped in the
spotless<br>
 veil of an immaculate wife and the crape of departed
happiness."</p>

<p>A portrait of Hulot, in the uniform of a Commissary General of
the<br>
 Imperial Guard, painted in 1810 by Robert Lefebvre, hung above
the<br>
 work-table, and when visitors were announced, Adeline threw into
a<br>
 drawer an <i>Imitation of Jesus Christ</i>, her habitual study.
This<br>
 blameless Magdalen thus heard the Voice of the Spirit in her
desert.</p>

<p>"Mariette, my child," said Lisbeth to the woman who opened the
door,<br>
 "how is my dear Adeline to-day?"</p>

<p>"Oh, she looks pretty well, mademoiselle; but between you and
me, if<br>
 she goes on in this way, she will kill herself," said Mariette
in a<br>
 whisper. "You really ought to persuade her to live better.
Now,<br>
 yesterday madame told me to give her two sous' worth of milk and
a<br>
 roll for one sou; to get her a herring for dinner and a bit of
cold<br>
 veal; she had a pound cooked to last her the week--of course,
for the<br>
 days when she dines at home and alone. She will not spend more
than<br>
 ten sous a day for her food. It is unreasonable. If I were to
say<br>
 anything about it to Monsieur le Marechal, he might quarrel
with<br>
 Monsieur le Baron and leave him nothing, whereas you, who are so
kind<br>
 and clever, can manage things----"</p>

<p>"But why do you not apply to my cousin the Baron?" said
Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Oh, dear mademoiselle, he has not been here for three weeks
or more;<br>
 in fact, not since we last had the pleasure of seeing you!
Besides,<br>
 madame has forbidden me, under threat of dismissal, ever to ask
the<br>
 master for money. But as for grief!--oh, poor lady, she has been
very<br>
 unhappy. It is the first time that monsieur has neglected her
for so<br>
 long. Every time the bell rang she rushed to the window--but for
the<br>
 last five days she has sat still in her chair. She reads.
Whenever she<br>
 goes out to see Madame la Comtesse, she says, 'Mariette, if
monsieur<br>
 comes in,' says she, 'tell him I am at home, and send the porter
to<br>
 fetch me; he shall be well paid for his trouble.' "</p>

<p>"Poor soul!" said Lisbeth; "it goes to my heart. I speak of
her to the<br>
 Baron every day. What can I do? 'Yes,' says he, 'Betty, you are
right;<br>
 I am a wretch. My wife is an angel, and I am a monster! I will
go<br>
 to-morrow----' And he stays with Madame Marneffe. That woman
is<br>
 ruining him, and he worships her; he lives only in her sight.--I
do<br>
 what I can; if I were not there, and if I had not Mathurine to
depend<br>
 upon, he would spend twice as much as he does; and as he has
hardly<br>
 any money in the world, he would have blown his brains out by
this<br>
 time. And, I tell you, Mariette, Adeline would die of her
husband's<br>
 death, I am perfectly certain. At any rate, I pull to make both
ends<br>
 meet, and prevent my cousin from throwing too much money into
the<br>
 fire."</p>

<p>"Yes, that is what madame says, poor soul! She knows how much
she owes<br>
 you," replied Mariette. "She said she had judged you unjustly
for many<br>
 years----"</p>

<p>"Indeed!" said Lisbeth. "And did she say anything else?"</p>

<p>"No, mademoiselle. If you wish to please her, talk to her
about<br>
 Monsieur le Baron; she envies you your happiness in seeing him
every<br>
 day."</p>

<p>"Is she alone?"</p>

<p>"I beg pardon, no; the Marshal is with her. He comes every
day, and<br>
 she always tells him she saw monsieur in the morning, but that
he<br>
 comes in very late at night."</p>

<p>"And is there a good dinner to-day?"</p>

<p>Mariette hesitated; she could not meet Lisbeth's eye. The
drawing-room<br>
 door opened, and Marshal Hulot rushed out in such haste that he
bowed<br>
 to Lisbeth without looking at her, and dropped a paper. Lisbeth
picked<br>
 it up and ran after him downstairs, for it was vain to hail a
deaf<br>
 man; but she managed not to overtake the Marshal, and as she
came up<br>
 again she furtively read the following lines written in
pencil:--</p>

<p>"MY DEAR BROTHER,--My husband has given me the money for
my<br>
 quarter's expenses; but my daughter Hortense was in such need
of<br>
 it, that I lent her the whole sum, which was scarcely enough
to<br>
 set her straight. Could you lend me a few hundred francs? For
I<br>
 cannot ask Hector for more; if he were to blame me, I could
not<br>
 bear it."</p>

<p>"My word!" thought Lisbeth, "she must be in extremities to
bend her<br>
 pride to such a degree!"</p>

<p>Lisbeth went in. She saw tears in Adeline's eyes, and threw
her arms<br>
 round her neck.</p>

<p>"Adeline, my dearest, I know all," cried Cousin Betty. "Here,
the<br>
 Marshal dropped this paper--he was in such a state of mind,
and<br>
 running like a greyhound.--Has that dreadful Hector given you no
money<br>
 since----?"</p>

<p>"He gives it me quite regularly," replied the Baroness, "but
Hortense<br>
 needed it, and--"</p>

<p>"And you had not enough to pay for dinner to-night," said
Lisbeth,<br>
 interrupting her. "Now I understand why Mariette looked so
confused<br>
 when I said something about the soup. You really are
childish,<br>
 Adeline; come, take my savings."</p>

<p>"Thank you, my kind cousin," said Adeline, wiping away a tear.
"This<br>
 little difficulty is only temporary, and I have provided for
the<br>
 future. My expenses henceforth will be no more than two thousand
four<br>
 hundred francs a year, rent inclusive, and I shall have the
money.--<br>
 Above all, Betty, not a word to Hector. Is he well?"</p>

<p>"As strong as the Pont Neuf, and as gay as a lark; he thinks
of<br>
 nothing but his charmer Valerie."</p>

<p>Madame Hulot looked out at a tall silver-fir in front of the
window,<br>
 and Lisbeth could not see her cousin's eyes to read their
expression.</p>

<p>"Did you mention that it was the day when we all dine together
here?"</p>

<p>"Yes. But, dear me! Madame Marneffe is giving a grand dinner;
she<br>
 hopes to get Monsieur Coquet to resign, and that is of the
first<br>
 importance.--Now, Adeline, listen to me. You know that I am
fiercely<br>
 proud as to my independence. Your husband, my dear, will
certainly<br>
 bring you to ruin. I fancied I could be of use to you all by
living<br>
 near this woman, but she is a creature of unfathomable
depravity, and<br>
 she will make your husband promise things which will bring you
all to<br>
 disgrace." Adeline writhed like a person stabbed to the heart.
"My<br>
 dear Adeline, I am sure of what I say. I feel it is my duty
to<br>
 enlighten you.--Well, let us think of the future. The Marshal is
an<br>
 old man, but he will last a long time yet--he draws good pay;
when he<br>
 dies his widow would have a pension of six thousand francs. On
such an<br>
 income I would undertake to maintain you all. Use your influence
over<br>
 the good man to get him to marry me. It is not for the sake of
being<br>
 Madame la Marechale; I value such nonsense at no more than I
value<br>
 Madame Marneffe's conscience; but you will all have bread. I see
that<br>
 Hortense must be wanting it, since you give her yours."</p>

<p>The Marshal now came in; he had made such haste, that he was
mopping<br>
 his forehead with his bandana.</p>

<p>"I have given Mariette two thousand francs," he whispered to
his<br>
 sister-in-law.</p>

<p>Adeline colored to the roots of her hair. Two tears hung on
the<br>
 fringes of the still long lashes, and she silently pressed the
old<br>
 man's hand; his beaming face expressed the glee of a favored
lover.</p>

<p>"I intended to spend the money in a present for you, Adeline,"
said<br>
 he. "Instead of repaying me, you must choose for yourself the
thing<br>
 you would like best."</p>

<p>He took Lisbeth's hand, which she held out to him, and so
bewildered<br>
 was he by his satisfaction, that he kissed it.</p>

<p>"That looks promising," said Adeline to Lisbeth, smiling so
far as she<br>
 was able to smile.</p>

<p>The younger Hulot and his wife now came in.</p>

<p>"Is my brother coming to dinner?" asked the Marshal
sharply.</p>

<p>Adeline took up a pencil and wrote these words on a scrap of
paper:</p>

<p>"I expect him; he promised this morning that he would be here;
but if<br>
 he should not come, it would be because the Marshal kept him. He
is<br>
 overwhelmed with business."</p>

<p>And she handed him the paper. She had invented this way of
conversing<br>
 with Marshal Hulot, and kept a little collection of paper scraps
and a<br>
 pencil at hand on the work-table.</p>

<p>"I know," said the Marshal, "he is worked very hard over the
business<br>
 in Algiers."</p>

<p>At this moment, Hortense and Wenceslas arrived, and the
Baroness, as<br>
 she saw all her family about her, gave the Marshal a
significant<br>
 glance understood by none but Lisbeth.</p>

<p>Happiness had greatly improved the artist, who was adored by
his wife<br>
 and flattered by the world. His face had become almost round,
and his<br>
 graceful figure did justice to the advantages which blood gives
to men<br>
 of birth. His early fame, his important position, the
delusive<br>
 eulogies that the world sheds on artists as lightly as we say,
"How<br>
 d'ye do?" or discuss the weather, gave him that high sense of
merit<br>
 which degenerates into sheer fatuity when talent wanes. The
Cross of<br>
 the Legion of Honor was the crowning stamp of the great man
he<br>
 believed himself to be.</p>

<p>After three years of married life, Hortense was to her husband
what a<br>
 dog is to its master; she watched his every movement with a look
that<br>
 seemed a constant inquiry, her eyes were always on him, like
those of<br>
 a miser on his treasure; her admiring abnegation was quite
pathetic.<br>
 In her might be seen her mother's spirit and teaching. Her
beauty, as<br>
 great as ever, was poetically touched by the gentle shadow
of<br>
 concealed melancholy.</p>

<p>On seeing Hortense come in, it struck Lisbeth that some
long-<br>
 suppressed complaint was about to break through the thin veil
of<br>
 reticence. Lisbeth, from the first days of the honeymoon, had
been<br>
 sure that this couple had too small an income for so great a
passion.</p>

<p>Hortense, as she embraced her mother, exchanged with her a
few<br>
 whispered phrases, heart to heart, of which the mystery was
betrayed<br>
 to Lisbeth by certain shakes of the head.</p>

<p>"Adeline, like me, must work for her living," thought Cousin
Betty.<br>
 "She shall be made to tell me what she will do! Those pretty
fingers<br>
 will know at last, like mine, what it is to work because they
must."</p>

<p>At six o'clock the family party went in to dinner. A place was
laid<br>
 for Hector.</p>

<p>"Leave it so," said the Baroness to Mariette, "monsieur
sometimes<br>
 comes in late."</p>

<p>"Oh, my father will certainly come," said Victorin to his
mother. "He<br>
 promised me he would when we parted at the Chamber."</p>

<p>Lisbeth, like a spider in the middle of its net, gloated over
all<br>
 these countenances. Having known Victorin and Hortense from
their<br>
 birth, their faces were to her like panes of glass, through
which she<br>
 could read their young souls. Now, from certain stolen looks
directed<br>
 by Victorin on his mother, she saw that some disaster was
hanging over<br>
 Adeline which Victorin hesitated to reveal. The famous young
lawyer<br>
 had some covert anxiety. His deep reverence for his mother was
evident<br>
 in the regret with which he gazed at her.</p>

<p>Hortense was evidently absorbed in her own woes; for a
fortnight past,<br>
 as Lisbeth knew, she had been suffering the first uneasiness
which<br>
 want of money brings to honest souls, and to young wives on whom
life<br>
 has hitherto smiled, and who conceal their alarms. Also Lisbeth
had<br>
 immediately guessed that her mother had given her no money.
Adeline's<br>
 delicacy had brought her so low as to use the fallacious excuses
that<br>
 necessity suggests to borrowers.</p>

<p>Hortense's absence of mind, with her brother's and the
Baroness' deep<br>
 dejection, made the dinner a melancholy meal, especially with
the<br>
 added chill of the Marshal's utter deafness. Three persons gave
a<br>
 little life to the scene: Lisbeth, Celestine, and Wenceslas.<br>
 Hortense's affection had developed the artist's natural
liveliness as<br>
 a Pole, the somewhat swaggering vivacity and noisy high spirits
that<br>
 characterize these Frenchmen of the North. His frame of mind and
the<br>
 expression of his face showed plainly that he believed in
himself, and<br>
 that poor Hortense, faithful to her mother's training, kept
all<br>
 domestic difficulties to herself.</p>

<p>"You must be content, at any rate," said Lisbeth to her young
cousin,<br>
 as they rose from table, "since your mother has helped you with
her<br>
 money."</p>

<p>"Mamma!" replied Hortense in astonishment. "Oh, poor mamma! It
is for<br>
 me that she would like to make money. You do not know, Lisbeth,
but I<br>
 have a horrible suspicion that she works for it in secret."</p>

<p>They were crossing the large, dark drawing-room where there
were no<br>
 candles, all following Mariette, who was carrying the lamp
into<br>
 Adeline's bedroom. At this instant Victorin just touched Lisbeth
and<br>
 Hortense on the arm. The two women, understanding the hint,
left<br>
 Wenceslas, Celestine, the Marshal, and the Baroness to go on
together,<br>
 and remained standing in a window-bay.</p>

<p>"What is it, Victorin?" said Lisbeth. "Some disaster caused by
your<br>
 father, I dare wager."</p>

<p>"Yes, alas!" replied Victorin. "A money-lender named Vauvinet
has<br>
 bills of my father's to the amount of sixty thousand francs, and
wants<br>
 to prosecute. I tried to speak of the matter to my father at
the<br>
 Chamber, but he would not understand me; he almost avoided me.
Had we<br>
 better tell my mother?"</p>

<p>"No, no," said Lisbeth, "she has too many troubles; it would
be a<br>
 death-blow; you must spare her. You have no idea how low she
has<br>
 fallen. But for your uncle, you would have found no dinner here
this<br>
 evening."</p>

<p>"Dear Heaven! Victorin, what wretches we are!" said Hortense
to her<br>
 brother. "We ought to have guessed what Lisbeth has told us. My
dinner<br>
 is choking me!"</p>

<p>Hortense could say no more; she covered her mouth with her<br>
 handkerchief to smother a sob, and melted into tears.</p>

<p>"I told the fellow Vauvinet to call on me to-morrow,"
replied<br>
 Victorin, "but will he be satisfied by my guarantee on a
mortgage? I<br>
 doubt it. Those men insist on ready money to sweat others on
usurious<br>
 terms."</p>

<p>"Let us sell out of the funds!" said Lisbeth to Hortense.</p>

<p>"What good would that do?" replied Victorin. "It would bring
fifteen<br>
 or sixteen thousand francs, and we want sixty thousand."</p>

<p>"Dear cousin!" cried Hortense, embracing Lisbeth with the
enthusiasm<br>
 of guilelessness.</p>

<p>"No, Lisbeth, keep your little fortune," said Victorin,
pressing the<br>
 old maid's hand. "I shall see to-morrow what this man would be
up to.<br>
 With my wife's consent, I can at least hinder or postpone
the<br>
 prosecution--for it would really be frightful to see my father's
honor<br>
 impugned. What would the War Minister say? My father's salary,
which<br>
 he pledged for three years, will not be released before the
month of<br>
 December, so we cannot offer that as a guarantee. This Vauvinet
has<br>
 renewed the bills eleven times; so you may imagine what my
father must<br>
 pay in interest. We must close this pit."</p>

<p><br>
 "If only Madame Marneffe would throw him over!" said
Hortense<br>
 bitterly.</p>

<p>"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Victorin. "He would take up some
one else;<br>
 and with her, at any rate, the worst outlay is over."</p>

<p>What a change in children formerly so respectful, and kept so
long by<br>
 their mother in blind worship of their father! They knew him now
for<br>
 what he was.</p>

<p>"But for me," said Lisbeth, "your father's ruin would be more
complete<br>
 than it is."</p>

<p>"Come in to mamma," said Hortense; "she is very sharp, and
will<br>
 suspect something; as our kind Lisbeth says, let us keep
everything<br>
 from her--let us be cheerful."</p>

<p>"Victorin," said Lisbeth, "you have no notion of what your
father will<br>
 be brought to by his passion for women. Try to secure some
future<br>
 resource by getting the Marshal to marry me. Say something about
it<br>
 this evening; I will leave early on purpose."</p>

<p>Victorin went into the bedroom.</p>

<p>"And you, poor little thing!" said Lisbeth in an undertone
to<br>
 Hortense, "what can you do?"</p>

<p>"Come to dinner with us to-morrow, and we will talk it over,"
answered<br>
 Hortense. "I do not know which way to turn; you know how hard
life is,<br>
 and you will advise me."</p>

<p>While the whole family with one consent tried to persuade the
Marshal<br>
 to marry, and while Lisbeth was making her way home to the
Rue<br>
 Vanneau, one of those incidents occurred which, in such women
as<br>
 Madame Marneffe, are a stimulus to vice by compelling them to
exert<br>
 their energy and every resource of depravity. One fact, at any
rate,<br>
 must however be acknowledged: life in Paris is too full for
vicious<br>
 persons to do wrong instinctively and unprovoked; vice is only
a<br>
 weapon of defence against aggressors--that is all.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe's drawing-room was full of her faithful
admirers, and<br>
 she had just started the whist-tables, when the footman, a
pensioned<br>
 soldier recruited by the Baron, announced:</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Baron Montes de Montejanos."</p>

<p>Valerie's heart jumped, but she hurried to the door,
exclaiming:</p>

<p>"My cousin!" and as she met the Brazilian, she whispered:</p>

<p>"You are my relation--or all is at an end between us!--And so
you were<br>
 not wrecked, Henri?" she went on audibly, as she led him to the
fire.<br>
 "I heard you were lost, and have mourned for you these three
years."</p>

<p>"How are you, my good fellow?" said Marneffe, offering his
hand to the<br>
 stranger, whose get-up was indeed that of a Brazilian and a<br>
 millionaire.</p>

<p>Monsieur le Baron Henri Montes de Montejanos, to whom the
climate of<br>
 the equator had given the color and stature we expect to see
in<br>
 Othello on the stage, had an alarming look of gloom, but it was
a<br>
 merely pictorial illusion; for, sweet and affectionate by
nature, he<br>
 was predestined to be the victim that a strong man often is to a
weak<br>
 woman. The scorn expressed in his countenance, the muscular
strength<br>
 of his stalwart frame, all his physical powers were shown only
to his<br>
 fellow-men; a form of flattery which women appreciate, nay,
which so<br>
 intoxicates them, that every man with his mistress on his arm
assumes<br>
 a matador swagger that provokes a smile. Very well set up, in
a<br>
 closely fitting blue coat with solid gold buttons, in black
trousers,<br>
 spotless patent evening boots, and gloves of a fashionable hue,
the<br>
 only Brazilian touch in the Baron's costume was a large diamond,
worth<br>
 about a hundred thousand francs, which blazed like a star on
a<br>
 handsome blue silk cravat, tucked into a white waistcoat in such
a way<br>
 as to show corners of a fabulously fine shirt front.</p>

<p>His brow, bossy like that of a satyr, a sign of tenacity in
his<br>
 passions, was crowned by thick jet-black hair like a virgin
forest,<br>
 and under it flashed a pair of hazel eyes, so wild looking as
to<br>
 suggest that before his birth his mother must have been scared
by a<br>
 jaguar.</p>

<p>This fine specimen of the Portuguese race in Brazil took his
stand<br>
 with his back to the fire, in an attitude that showed
familiarity with<br>
 Paris manners; holding his hat in one hand, his elbow resting on
the<br>
 velvet-covered shelf, he bent over Madame Marneffe, talking to
her in<br>
 an undertone, and troubling himself very little about the
dreadful<br>
 people who, in his opinion, were so very much in the way.</p>

<p>This fashion of taking the stage, with the Brazilian's
attitude and<br>
 expression, gave, alike to Crevel and to the baron, an identical
shock<br>
 of curiosity and anxiety. Both were struck by the same
impression and<br>
 the same surmise. And the manoeuvre suggested in each by their
very<br>
 genuine passion was so comical in its simultaneous results, that
it<br>
 made everybody smile who was sharp enough to read its meaning.
Crevel,<br>
 a tradesman and shopkeeper to the backbone, though a mayor of
Paris,<br>
 unluckily, was a little slower to move than his rival partner,
and<br>
 this enabled the Baron to read at a glance Crevel's involuntary
self-<br>
 betrayal. This was a fresh arrow to rankle in the very amorous
old<br>
 man's heart, and he resolved to have an explanation from
Valerie.</p>

<p>"This evening," said Crevel to himself too, as he sorted his
hand, "I<br>
 must know where I stand."</p>

<p>"You have a heart!" cried Marneffe. "You have just
revoked."</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon," said Crevel, trying to withdraw his
card.--"This<br>
 Baron seems to me very much in the way," he went on, thinking
to<br>
 himself. "If Valerie carries on with my Baron, well and good--it
is a<br>
 means to my revenge, and I can get rid of him if I choose; but
as for<br>
 this cousin!--He is one Baron too many; I do not mean to be made
a<br>
 fool of. I will know how they are related."</p>

<p>That evening, by one of those strokes of luck which come to
pretty<br>
 women, Valerie was charmingly dressed. Her white bosom gleamed
under a<br>
 lace tucker of rusty white, which showed off the satin texture
of her<br>
 beautiful shoulders--for Parisian women, Heaven knows how, have
some<br>
 way of preserving their fine flesh and remaining slender. She
wore a<br>
 black velvet gown that looked as if it might at any moment slip
off<br>
 her shoulders, and her hair was dressed with lace and
drooping<br>
 flowers. Her arms, not fat but dimpled, were graced by deep
ruffles to<br>
 her sleeves. She was like a luscious fruit coquettishly served
in a<br>
 handsome dish, and making the knife-blade long to be cutting
it.</p>

<p>"Valerie," the Brazilian was saying in her ear, "I have come
back<br>
 faithful to you. My uncle is dead; I am twice as rich as I was
when I<br>
 went away. I mean to live and die in Paris, for you and with
you."</p>

<p>"Lower, Henri, I implore you----"</p>

<p>"Pooh! I mean to speak to you this evening, even if I should
have to<br>
 pitch all these creatures out of window, especially as I have
lost two<br>
 days in looking for you. I shall stay till the last.--I can,
I<br>
 suppose?"</p>

<p>Valerie smiled at her adopted cousin, and said:</p>

<p>"Remember that you are the son of my mother's sister, who
married your<br>
 father during Junot's campaign in Portugal."</p>

<p>"What, I, Montes de Montejanos, great grandson of a conquerer
of<br>
 Brazil! Tell a lie?"</p>

<p>"Hush, lower, or we shall never meet again."</p>

<p>"Pray, why?"</p>

<p>"Marneffe, like all dying wretches, who always take up some
last whim,<br>
 has a revived passion for me----"</p>

<p>"That cur?" said the Brazilian, who knew his Marneffe; "I will
settle<br>
 him!"</p>

<p>"What violence!"</p>

<p>"And where did you get all this splendor?" the Brazilian went
on, just<br>
 struck by the magnificence of the apartment.</p>

<p>She began to laugh.</p>

<p>"Henri! what bad taste!" said she.</p>

<p>She had felt two burning flashes of jealousy which had moved
her so<br>
 far as to make her look at the two souls in purgatory. Crevel,
playing<br>
 against Baron Hulot and Monsieur Coquet, had Marneffe for his
partner.<br>
 The game was even, because Crevel and the Baron were equally
absent-<br>
 minded, and made blunder after blunder. Thus, in one instant,
the old<br>
 men both confessed the passion which Valerie had persuaded them
to<br>
 keep secret for the past three years; but she too had failed to
hide<br>
 the joy in her eyes at seeing the man who had first taught her
heart<br>
 to beat, the object of her first love. The rights of such
happy<br>
 mortals survive as long as the woman lives over whom they
have<br>
 acquired them.</p>

<p>With these three passions at her side--one supported by the
insolence<br>
 of wealth, the second by the claims of possession, and the third
by<br>
 youth, strength, fortune, and priority--Madame Marneffe
preserved her<br>
 coolness and presence of mind, like General Bonaparte when, at
the<br>
 siege of Mantua, he had to fight two armies, and at the same
time<br>
 maintain the blockade.</p>

<p>Jealousy, distorting Hulot's face, made him look as terrible
as the<br>
 late Marshal Montcornet leading a cavalry charge against a
Russian<br>
 square. Being such a handsome man, he had never known any ground
for<br>
 jealousy, any more than Murat knew what it was to be afraid. He
had<br>
 always felt sure that he should triumph. His rebuff by Josepha,
the<br>
 first he had ever met, he ascribed to her love of money; "he
was<br>
 conquered by millions, and not by a changeling," he would say
when<br>
 speaking of the Duc d'Herouville. And now, in one instant, the
poison<br>
 and delirium that the mad passion sheds in a flood had rushed to
his<br>
 heart. He kept turning from the whist-table towards the
fireplace with<br>
 an action <i>a la</i> Mirabeau; and as he laid down his cards to
cast a<br>
 challenging glance at the Brazilian and Valerie, the rest of
the<br>
 company felt the sort of alarm mingled with curiosity that is
caused<br>
 by evident violence ready to break out at any moment. The sham
cousin<br>
 stared at Hulot as he might have looked at some big China
mandarin.</p>

<p>This state of things could not last; it was bound to end in
some<br>
 tremendous outbreak. Marneffe was as much afraid of Hulot as
Crevel<br>
 was of Marneffe, for he was anxious not to die a mere clerk.
Men<br>
 marked for death believe in life as galley-slaves believe in
liberty;<br>
 this man was bent on being a first-class clerk at any cost.
Thoroughly<br>
 frightened by the pantomime of the Baron and Crevel, he rose,
said a<br>
 few words in his wife's ear, and then, to the surprise of all,
Valerie<br>
 went into the adjoining bedroom with the Brazilian and her
husband.</p>

<p>"Did Madame Marneffe ever speak to you of this cousin of
hers?" said<br>
 Crevel to Hulot.</p>

<p>"Never!" replied the Baron, getting up. "That is enough for
this<br>
 evening," said he. "I have lost two louis--there they are."</p>

<p>He threw the two gold pieces on the table, and seated himself
on the<br>
 sofa with a look which everybody else took as a hint to go.
Monsieur<br>
 and Madame Coquet, after exchanging a few words, left the room,
and<br>
 Claude Vignon, in despair, followed their example. These two<br>
 departures were a hint to less intelligent persons, who now
found that<br>
 they were not wanted. The Baron and Crevel were left together,
and<br>
 spoke never a word. Hulot, at last, ignoring Crevel, went on
tiptoe to<br>
 listen at the bedroom door; but he bounded back with a
prodigious<br>
 jump, for Marneffe opened the door and appeared with a calm
face,<br>
 astonished to find only the two men.</p>

<p>"And the tea?" said he.</p>

<p>"Where is Valerie?" replied the Baron in a rage.</p>

<p>"My wife," said Marneffe. "She is gone upstairs to speak
to<br>
 mademoiselle your cousin. She will come down directly."</p>

<p>"And why has she deserted us for that stupid creature?"</p>

<p>"Well," said Marneffe, "Mademoiselle Lisbeth came back from
dining<br>
 with the Baroness with an attack of indigestion and Mathurine
asked<br>
 Valerie for some tea for her, so my wife went up to see what was
the<br>
 matter."</p>

<p>"And <i>her</i> cousin?"</p>

<p>"He is gone."</p>

<p>"Do you really believe that?" said the Baron.</p>

<p>"I have seen him to his carriage," replied Marneffe, with a
hideous<br>
 smirk.</p>

<p>The wheels of a departing carriage were audible in the street.
The<br>
 Baron, counting Marneffe for nothing, went upstairs to Lisbeth.
An<br>
 idea flashed through him such as the heart sends to the brain
when it<br>
 is on fire with jealousy. Marneffe's baseness was so well known
to<br>
 him, that he could imagine the most degrading connivance
between<br>
 husband and wife.</p>

<p>"What has become of all the ladies and gentlemen?" said
Marneffe,<br>
 finding himself alone with Crevel.</p>

<p>"When the sun goes to bed, the cocks and hens follow suit,"
said<br>
 Crevel. "Madame Marneffe disappeared, and her adorers departed.
Will<br>
 you play a game of piquet?" added Crevel, who meant to
remain.</p>

<p>He too believed that the Brazilian was in the house.</p>

<p>Monsieur Marneffe agreed. The Mayor was a match for the Baron.
Simply<br>
 by playing cards with the husband he could stay on indefinitely;
and<br>
 Marneffe, since the suppression of the public tables, was
quite<br>
 satisfied with the more limited opportunities of private
play.</p>

<p>Baron Hulot went quickly up to Lisbeth's apartment, but the
door was<br>
 locked, and the usual inquiries through the door took up time
enough<br>
 to enable the two light-handed and cunning women to arrange the
scene<br>
 of an attack of indigestion with the accessories of tea. Lisbeth
was<br>
 in such pain that Valerie was very much alarmed, and
consequently<br>
 hardly paid any heed to the Baron's furious entrance.
Indisposition is<br>
 one of the screens most often placed by women to ward off a
quarrel.<br>
 Hulot peeped about, here and there, but could see no spot in
Cousin<br>
 Betty's room where a Brazilian might lie hidden.</p>

<p><br>
 "Your indigestion does honor to my wife's dinner, Lisbeth," said
he,<br>
 scrutinizing her, for Lisbeth was perfectly well, trying to
imitate<br>
 the hiccough of spasmodic indigestion as she drank her tea.</p>

<p>"How lucky it is that dear Betty should be living under my
roof!" said<br>
 Madame Marneffe. "But for me, the poor thing would have
died."</p>

<p>"You look as if you only half believed it," added Lisbeth,
turning to<br>
 the Baron, "and that would be a shame----"</p>

<p>"Why?" asked the Baron. "Do you know the purpose of my
visit?"</p>

<p>And he leered at the door of a dressing-closet from which the
key had<br>
 been withdrawn.</p>

<p>"Are you talking Greek?" said Madame Marneffe, with an
appealing look<br>
 of misprized tenderness and devotedness.</p>

<p>"But it is all through you, my dear cousin; yes, it is your
doing that<br>
 I am in such a state," said Lisbeth vehemently.</p>

<p>This speech diverted the Baron's attention; he looked at the
old maid<br>
 with the greatest astonishment.</p>

<p>"You know that I am devoted to you," said Lisbeth. "I am here,
that<br>
 says everything. I am wearing out the last shreds of my strength
in<br>
 watching over your interests, since they are one with our
dear<br>
 Valerie's. Her house costs one-tenth of what any other does that
is<br>
 kept on the same scale. But for me, Cousin, instead of two
thousand<br>
 francs a month, you would be obliged to spend three or four
thousand."</p>

<p>"I know all that," replied the Baron out of patience; "you are
our<br>
 protectress in many ways," he added, turning to Madame Marneffe
and<br>
 putting his arm round her neck.--"Is not she, my pretty
sweet?"</p>

<p>"On my honor," exclaimed Valerie, "I believe you are gone
mad!"</p>

<p>"Well, you cannot doubt my attachment," said Lisbeth. "But I
am also<br>
 very fond of my cousin Adeline, and I found her in tears. She
has not<br>
 seen you for a month. Now that is really too bad; you leave my
poor<br>
 Adeline without a sou. Your daughter Hortense almost died of it
when<br>
 she was told that it is thanks to your brother that we had any
dinner<br>
 at all. There was not even bread in your house this day.</p>

<p>"Adeline is heroically resolved to keep her sufferings to
herself. She<br>
 said to me, 'I will do as you have done!' The speech went to my
heart;<br>
 and after dinner, as I thought of what my cousin had been in
1811, and<br>
 of what she is in 1841--thirty years after--I had a violent<br>
 indigestion.--I fancied I should get over it; but when I got
home, I<br>
 thought I was dying--"</p>

<p>"You see, Valerie, to what my adoration of you has brought me!
To<br>
 crime--domestic crime!"</p>

<p>"Oh! I was wise never to marry!" cried Lisbeth, with savage
joy. "You<br>
 are a kind, good man; Adeline is a perfect angel;--and this is
the<br>
 reward of her blind devotion."</p>

<p>"An elderly angel!" said Madame Marneffe softly, as she looked
half<br>
 tenderly, half mockingly, at her Hector, who was gazing at her
as an<br>
 examining judge gazes at the accused.</p>

<p>"My poor wife!" said Hulot. "For more than nine months I have
given<br>
 her no money, though I find it for you, Valerie; but at what a
cost!<br>
 No one else will ever love you so, and what torments you inflict
on me<br>
 in return!"</p>

<p>"Torments?" she echoed. "Then what do you call happiness?"</p>

<p>"I do not yet know on what terms you have been with this
so-called<br>
 cousin whom you never mentioned to me," said the Baron, paying
no heed<br>
 to Valerie's interjection. "But when he came in I felt as if
a<br>
 penknife had been stuck into my heart. Blinded I may be, but I
am not<br>
 blind. I could read his eyes, and yours. In short, from under
that<br>
 ape's eyelids there flashed sparks that he flung at you--and
your<br>
 eyes!--Oh! you have never looked at me so, never! As to this
mystery,<br>
 Valerie, it shall all be cleared up. You are the only woman who
ever<br>
 made me know the meaning of jealousy, so you need not be
surprised by<br>
 what I say.--But another mystery which has rent its cloud, and
it<br>
 seems to me infamous----"</p>

<p>"Go on, go on," said Valerie.</p>

<p>"It is that Crevel, that square lump of flesh and stupidity,
is in<br>
 love with you, and that you accept his attentions with so good a
grace<br>
 that the idiot flaunts his passion before everybody."</p>

<p>"Only three! Can you discover no more?" asked Madame
Marneffe.</p>

<p>"There may be more!" retorted the Baron.</p>

<p>"If Monsieur Crevel is in love with me, he is in his rights as
a man<br>
 after all; if I favored his passion, that would indeed be the
act of a<br>
 coquette, or of a woman who would leave much to be desired on
your<br>
 part.--Well, love me as you find me, or let me alone. If you
restore<br>
 me to freedom, neither you nor Monsieur Crevel will ever enter
my<br>
 doors again. But I will take up with my cousin, just to keep my
hand<br>
 in, in those charming habits you suppose me to
indulge.--Good-bye,<br>
 Monsieur le Baron Hulot."</p>

<p>She rose, but the Baron took her by the arm and made her sit
down<br>
 again. The old man could not do without Valerie. She had become
more<br>
 imperatively indispensable to him than the necessaries of life;
he<br>
 preferred remaining in uncertainty to having any proof of
Valerie's<br>
 infidelity.</p>

<p>"My dearest Valerie," said he, "do you not see how miserable I
am? I<br>
 only ask you to justify yourself. Give me sufficient
reasons--"</p>

<p>"Well, go downstairs and wait for me; for I suppose you do not
wish to<br>
 look on at the various ceremonies required by your cousin's
state."</p>

<p>Hulot slowly turned away</p>

<p>"You old profligate," cried Lisbeth, "you have not even asked
me how<br>
 your children are? What are you going to do for Adeline? I, at
any<br>
 rate, will take her my savings to-morrow."</p>

<p>"You owe your wife white bread to eat at least," said Madame
Marneffe,<br>
 smiling.</p>

<p>The Baron, without taking offence at Lisbeth's tone, as
despotic as<br>
 Josepha's, got out of the room, only too glad to escape so
importunate<br>
 a question.</p>

<p>The door bolted once more, the Brazilian came out of the
dressing-<br>
 closet, where he had been waiting, and he appeared with his eyes
full<br>
 of tears, in a really pitiable condition. Montes had heard
everything.</p>

<p>"Henri, you must have ceased to love me, I know it!" said
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, hiding her face in her handkerchief and bursting into
tears.</p>

<p>It was the outcry of real affection. The cry of a woman's
despair is<br>
 so convincing that it wins the forgiveness that lurks at the
bottom of<br>
 every lover's heart--when she is young and pretty, and wears a
gown so<br>
 low that she could slip out at the top and stand in the garb of
Eve.</p>

<p>"But why, if you love me, do you not leave everything for my
sake?"<br>
 asked the Brazilian.</p>

<p>This South American born, being logical, as men are who have
lived the<br>
 life of nature, at once resumed the conversation at the point
where it<br>
 had been broken off, putting his arm round Valerie's waist.</p>

<p>"Why?" she repeated, gazing up at Henri, whom she subjugated
at once<br>
 by a look charged with passion, "why, my dear boy, I am married;
we<br>
 are in Paris, not in the savannah, the pampas, the backwoods
of<br>
 America.--My dear Henri, my first and only love, listen to me.
That<br>
 husband of mine, a second clerk in the War Office, is bent on
being a<br>
 head-clerk and officer of the Legion of Honor; can I help his
being<br>
 ambitious? Now for the very reason that made him leave us our
liberty<br>
 --nearly four years ago, do you remember, you bad boy?--he
now<br>
 abandons me to Monsieur Hulot. I cannot get rid of that
dreadful<br>
 official, who snorts like a grampus, who has fins in his
nostrils, who<br>
 is sixty-three years old, and who had grown ten years older by
dint of<br>
 trying to be young; who is so odious to me that the very day
when<br>
 Marneffe is promoted, and gets his Cross of the Legion of
Honor----"</p>

<p>"How much more will your husband get then?"</p>

<p>"A thousand crowns."</p>

<p>"I will pay him as much in an annuity," said Baron Montes. "We
will<br>
 leave Paris and go----"</p>

<p>"Where?" said Valerie, with one of the pretty sneers by which
a woman<br>
 makes fun of a man she is sure of. "Paris is the only place
where we<br>
 can live happy. I care too much for your love to risk seeing it
die<br>
 out in a <i>tete-a-tete</i> in the wilderness. Listen, Henri,
you are the<br>
 only man I care for in the whole world. Write that down clearly
in<br>
 your tiger's brain."</p>

<p>For women, when they have made a sheep of a man, always tell
him that<br>
 he is a lion with a will of iron.</p>

<p>"Now, attend to me. Monsieur Marneffe has not five years to
live; he<br>
 is rotten to the marrow of his bones. He spends seven months of
the<br>
 twelve in swallowing drugs and decoctions; he lives wrapped
in<br>
 flannel; in short, as the doctor says, he lives under the
scythe, and<br>
 may be cut off at any moment. An illness that would not harm
another<br>
 man would be fatal to him; his blood is corrupt, his life
undermined<br>
 at the root. For five years I have never allowed him to kiss
me--he is<br>
 poisonous! Some day, and the day is not far off, I shall be a
widow.<br>
 Well, then, I--who have already had an offer from a man with
sixty<br>
 thousand francs a year, I who am as completely mistress of that
man as<br>
 I am of this lump of sugar--I swear to you that if you were as
poor as<br>
 Hulot and as foul as Marneffe, if you beat me even, still you
are the<br>
 only man I will have for a husband, the only man I love, or
whose name<br>
 I will ever bear. And I am ready to give any pledge of my love
that<br>
 you may require."</p>

<p>"Well, then, to-night----"</p>

<p>"But you, son of the South, my splendid jaguar, come expressly
for me<br>
 from the virgin forest of Brazil," said she, taking his hand
and<br>
 kissing and fondling it, "I have some consideration for the
poor<br>
 creature you mean to make your wife.--Shall I be your wife,
Henri?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said the Brazilian, overpowered by this unbridled
volubility of<br>
 passion. And he knelt at her feet.</p>

<p>"Well, then, Henri," said Valerie, taking his two hands and
looking<br>
 straight into his eyes, "swear to me now, in the presence of
Lisbeth,<br>
 my best and only friend, my sister--that you will make me your
wife at<br>
 the end of my year's widowhood."</p>

<p>"I swear it."</p>

<p>"That is not enough. Swear by your mother's ashes and
eternal<br>
 salvation, swear by the Virgin Mary and by all your hopes as
a<br>
 Catholic!"</p>

<p>Valerie knew that the Brazilian would keep that oath even if
she<br>
 should have fallen into the foulest social slough.</p>

<p>The Baron solemnly swore it, his nose almost touching
Valerie's white<br>
 bosom, and his eyes spellbound. He was drunk, drunk as a man is
when<br>
 he sees the woman he loves once more, after a sea voyage of a
hundred<br>
 and twenty days.</p>

<p>"Good. Now be quite easy. And in Madame Marneffe respect the
future<br>
 Baroness de Montejanos. You are not to spend a sou upon me; I
forbid<br>
 it.--Stay here in the outer room; sleep on the sofa. I myself
will<br>
 come and tell you when you may move.--We will breakfast
to-morrow<br>
 morning, and you can be leaving at about one o'clock as if you
had<br>
 come to call at noon. There is nothing to fear; the gate-keepers
love<br>
 me as much as if they were my father and mother.--Now I must go
down<br>
 and make tea."</p>

<p>She beckoned to Lisbeth, who followed her out on to the
landing. There<br>
 Valerie whispered in the old maid's ear:</p>

<p>"My darkie has come back too soon. I shall die if I cannot
avenge you<br>
 on Hortense!"</p>

<p>"Make your mind easy, my pretty little devil!" said Lisbeth,
kissing<br>
 her forehead. "Love and Revenge on the same track will never
lose the<br>
 game. Hortense expects me to-morrow; she is in beggary. For a
thousand<br>
 francs you may have a thousand kisses from Wenceslas."</p>

<p>On leaving Valerie, Hulot had gone down to the porter's lodge
and made<br>
 a sudden invasion there.</p>

<p>"Madame Olivier?"</p>

<p>On hearing the imperious tone of this address, and seeing the
action<br>
 by which the Baron emphasized it, Madame Olivier came out into
the<br>
 courtyard as far as the Baron led her.</p>

<p>"You know that if any one can help your son to a connection by
and by,<br>
 it is I; it is owing to me that he is already third clerk in
a<br>
 notary's office, and is finishing his studies."</p>

<p>"Yes, Monsieur le Baron; and indeed, sir, you may depend on
our<br>
 gratitude. Not a day passes that I do not pray to God for
Monsieur le<br>
 Baron's happiness."</p>

<p>"Not so many words, my good woman," said Hulot, "but
deeds----"</p>

<p>"What can I do, sir?" asked Madame Olivier.</p>

<p>"A man came here to-night in a carriage. Do you know him?"</p>

<p>Madame Olivier had recognized Montes well enough. How could
she have<br>
 forgotten him? In the Rue du Doyenne the Brazilian had always
slipped<br>
 a five-franc piece into her hand as he went out in the morning,
rather<br>
 too early. If the Baron had applied to Monsieur Olivier, he
would<br>
 perhaps have learned all he wanted to know. But Olivier was in
bed. In<br>
 the lower orders the woman is not merely the superior of the
man--she<br>
 almost always has the upper hand. Madame Olivier had long since
made<br>
 up her mind as to which side to take in case of a collision
between<br>
 her two benefactors; she regarded Madame Marneffe as the
stronger<br>
 power.</p>

<p>"Do I know him?" she repeated. "No, indeed, no. I never saw
him<br>
 before!"</p>

<p>"What! Did Madame Marneffe's cousin never go to see her when
she was<br>
 living in the Rue du Doyenne?"</p>

<p>"Oh! Was it her cousin?" cried Madame Olivier. "I dare say he
did<br>
 come, but I did not know him again. Next time, sir, I will look
at<br>
 him----"</p>

<p>"He will be coming out," said Hulot, hastily interrupting
Madame<br>
 Olivier.</p>

<p>"He has left," said Madame Olivier, understanding the
situation. "The<br>
 carriage is gone."</p>

<p>"Did you see him go?"</p>

<p>"As plainly as I see you. He told his servant to drive to
the<br>
 Embassy."</p>

<p>This audacious statement wrung a sigh of relief from the
Baron; he<br>
 took Madame Olivier's hand and squeezed it.</p>

<p>"Thank you, my good Madame Olivier. But that is not
all.--Monsieur<br>
 Crevel?"</p>

<p>"Monsieur Crevel? What can you mean, sir? I do not
understand," said<br>
 Madame Olivier.</p>

<p>"Listen to me. He is Madame Marneffe's lover----"</p>

<p>"Impossible, Monsieur le Baron; impossible," said she,
clasping her<br>
 hands.</p>

<p>"He is Madame Marneffe's lover," the Baron repeated very
positively.<br>
 "How do they manage it? I don't know; but I mean to know, and
you are<br>
 to find out. If you can put me on the tracks of this intrigue,
your<br>
 son is a notary."</p>

<p>"Don't you fret yourself so, Monsieur le Baron," said Madame
Olivier.<br>
 "Madame cares for you, and for no one but you; her maid knows
that for<br>
 true, and we say, between her and me, that you are the luckiest
man in<br>
 this world--for you know what madame is.--Just perfection!</p>

<p>"She gets up at ten every morning; then she breakfasts. Well
and good.<br>
 After that she takes an hour or so to dress; that carries her on
till<br>
 two; then she goes for a walk in the Tuileries in the sight of
all<br>
 men, and she is always in by four to be ready for you. She lives
like<br>
 clockwork. She keeps no secrets from her maid, and Reine keeps
nothing<br>
 from me, you may be sure. Reine can't if she would--along of my
son,<br>
 for she is very sweet upon him. So, you see, if madame had
any<br>
 intimacy with Monsieur Crevel, we should be bound to know
it."</p>

<p>The Baron went upstairs again with a beaming countenance,
convinced<br>
 that he was the only man in the world to that shameless slut,
as<br>
 treacherous, but as lovely and as engaging as a siren.</p>

<p>Crevel and Marneffe had begun a second rubber at piquet.
Crevel was<br>
 losing, as a man must who is not giving his thoughts to his
game.<br>
 Marneffe, who knew the cause of the Mayor's absence of mind,
took<br>
 unscrupulous advantage of it; he looked at the cards in reverse,
and<br>
 discarded accordingly; thus, knowing his adversary's hand, he
played<br>
 to beat him. The stake being a franc a point, he had already
robbed<br>
 the Mayor of thirty francs when Hulot came in.</p>

<p>"Hey day!" said he, amazed to find no company. "Are you alone?
Where<br>
 is everybody gone?"</p>

<p>"Your pleasant temper put them all to flight," said
Crevel.</p>

<p>"No, it was my wife's cousin," replied Marneffe. "The ladies
and<br>
 gentlemen supposed that Valerie and Henri might have something
to say<br>
 to each other after three years' separation, and they very
discreetly<br>
 retired.--If I had been in the room, I would have kept them; but
then,<br>
 as it happens, it would have been a mistake, for Lisbeth, who
always<br>
 comes down to make tea at half-past ten, was taken ill, and that
upset<br>
 everything--"</p>

<p>"Then is Lisbeth really unwell?" asked Crevel in a fury.</p>

<p>"So I was told," replied Marneffe, with the heartless
indifference of<br>
 a man to whom women have ceased to exist.</p>

<p>The Mayor looked at the clock; and, calculating the time, the
Baron<br>
 seemed to have spent forty minutes in Lisbeth's rooms.
Hector's<br>
 jubilant expression seriously incriminated Valerie, Lisbeth,
and<br>
 himself.</p>

<p>"I have just seen her; she is in great pain, poor soul!" said
the<br>
 Baron.</p>

<p>"Then the sufferings of others must afford you much joy, my
friend,"<br>
 retorted Crevel with acrimony, "for you have come down with a
face<br>
 that is positively beaming. Is Lisbeth likely to die? For
your<br>
 daughter, they say, is her heiress. You are not like the same
man. You<br>
 left this room looking like the Moor of Venice, and you come
back with<br>
 the air of Saint-Preux!--I wish I could see Madame Marneffe's
face at<br>
 this minute----"</p>

<p>"And pray, what do you mean by that?" said Marneffe to Crevel,
packing<br>
 his cards and laying them down in front of him.</p>

<p>A light kindled in the eyes of this man, decrepit at the age
of forty-<br>
 seven; a faint color flushed his flaccid cold cheeks, his
ill-<br>
 furnished mouth was half open, and on his blackened lips a sort
of<br>
 foam gathered, thick, and as white as chalk. This fury in such
a<br>
 helpless wretch, whose life hung on a thread, and who in a duel
would<br>
 risk nothing while Crevel had everything to lose, frightened
the<br>
 Mayor.</p>

<p>"I said," repeated Crevel, "that I should like to see
Madame<br>
 Marneffe's face. And with all the more reason since yours, at
this<br>
 moment, is most unpleasant. On my honor, you are horribly ugly,
my<br>
 dear Marneffe----"</p>

<p>"Do you know that you are very uncivil?"</p>

<p>"A man who has won thirty francs of me in forty-five minutes
cannot<br>
 look handsome in my eyes."</p>

<p>"Ah, if you had but seen me seventeen years ago!" replied the
clerk.</p>

<p>"You were so good-looking?" asked Crevel.</p>

<p>"That was my ruin; now, if I had been like you--I might be a
mayor and<br>
 a peer."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Crevel, with a smile, "you have been too much in
the wars;<br>
 and of the two forms of metal that may be earned by worshiping
the god<br>
 of trade, you have taken the worse--the dross!" [This dialogue
is<br>
 garnished with puns for which it is difficult to find any
English<br>
 equivalent.] And Crevel roared with laughter. Though Marneffe
could<br>
 take offence if his honor were in peril, he always took these
rough<br>
 pleasantries in good part; they were the small coin of
conversation<br>
 between him and Crevel.</p>

<p>"The daughters of Eve cost me dear, no doubt; but, by the
powers!<br>
 'Short and sweet' is my motto."</p>

<p>" 'Long and happy' is more to my mind," returned Crevel.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe now came in; she saw that her husband was at
cards<br>
 with Crevel, and only the Baron in the room besides; a mere
glance at<br>
 the municipal dignitary showed her the frame of mind he was in,
and<br>
 her line of conduct was at once decided on.</p>

<p>"Marneffe, my dear boy," said she, leaning on her husband's
shoulder,<br>
 and passing her pretty fingers through his dingy gray hair,
but<br>
 without succeeding in covering his bald head with it, "it is
very late<br>
 for you; you ought to be in bed. To-morrow, you know, you must
dose<br>
 yourself by the doctor's orders. Reine will give you your herb
tea at<br>
 seven. If you wish to live, give up your game."</p>

<p>"We will pay it out up to five points," said Marneffe to
Crevel.</p>

<p>"Very good--I have scored two," replied the Mayor.</p>

<p>"How long will it take you?"</p>

<p>"Ten minutes," said Marneffe.</p>

<p>"It is eleven o'clock," replied Valerie. "Really, Monsieur
Crevel, one<br>
 might fancy you meant to kill my husband. Make haste, at any
rate."</p>

<p>This double-barreled speech made Crevel and Hulot smile, and
even<br>
 Marneffe himself. Valerie sat down to talk to Hector.</p>

<p>"You must leave, my dearest," said she in Hulot's ear. "Walk
up and<br>
 down the Rue Vanneau, and come in again when you see Crevel go
out."</p>

<p>"I would rather leave this room and go into your room through
the<br>
 dressing-room door. You could tell Reine to let me in."</p>

<p>"Reine is upstairs attending to Lisbeth."</p>

<p>"Well, suppose then I go up to Lisbeth's rooms?"</p>

<p>Danger hemmed in Valerie on every side; she foresaw a
discussion with<br>
 Crevel, and could not allow Hulot to be in her room, where he
could<br>
 hear all that went on.--And the Brazilian was upstairs with
Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Really, you men, when you have a notion in your head, you
would burn<br>
 a house down to get into it!" exclaimed she. "Lisbeth is not in
a fit<br>
 state to admit you.--Are you afraid of catching cold in the
street? Be<br>
 off there--or good-night."</p>

<p>"Good evening, gentlemen," said the Baron to the other
two.</p>

<p>Hulot, when piqued in his old man's vanity, was bent on
proving that<br>
 he could play the young man by waiting for the happy hour in the
open<br>
 air, and he went away.</p>

<p>Marneffe bid his wife good-night, taking her hands with a
semblance of<br>
 devotion. Valerie pressed her husband's hand with a
significant<br>
 glance, conveying:</p>

<p>"Get rid of Crevel."</p>

<p>"Good-night, Crevel," said Marneffe. "I hope you will not stay
long<br>
 with Valerie. Yes! I am jealous--a little late in the day, but
it has<br>
 me hard and fast. I shall come back to see if you are gone."</p>

<p>"We have a little business to discuss, but I shall not stay
long,"<br>
 said Crevel.</p>

<p>"Speak low.--What is it?" said Valerie, raising her voice, and
looking<br>
 at him with a mingled expression of haughtiness and scorn.</p>

<p>Crevel, as he met this arrogant stare, though he was doing
Valerie<br>
 important services, and had hoped to plume himself on the fact,
was at<br>
 once reduced to submission.</p>

<p>"That Brazilian----" he began, but, overpowered by Valerie's
fixed<br>
 look of contempt, he broke off.</p>

<p>"What of him?" said she.</p>

<p>"That cousin--"</p>

<p>"Is no cousin of mine," said she. "He is my cousin to the
world and to<br>
 Monsieur Marneffe. And if he were my lover, it would be no
concern of<br>
 yours. A tradesman who pays a woman to be revenged on another
man, is,<br>
 in my opinion, beneath the man who pays her for love of her. You
did<br>
 not care for me; all you saw in me was Monsieur Hulot's
mistress. You<br>
 bought me as a man buys a pistol to kill his adversary. I
wanted<br>
 bread--I accepted the bargain."</p>

<p>"But you have not carried it out," said Crevel, the tradesman
once<br>
 more.</p>

<p>"You want Baron Hulot to be told that you have robbed him of
his<br>
 mistress, to pay him out for having robbed you of Josepha?
Nothing can<br>
 more clearly prove your baseness. You say you love a woman, you
treat<br>
 her like a duchess, and then you want to degrade her? Well, my
good<br>
 fellow, and you are right. This woman is no match for Josepha.
That<br>
 young person has the courage of her disgrace, while I--I am
a<br>
 hypocrite, and deserve to be publicly whipped.--Alas! Josepha
is<br>
 protected by her cleverness and her wealth. I have nothing to
shelter<br>
 me but my reputation; I am still the worthy and blameless wife
of a<br>
 plain citizen; if you create a scandal, what is to become of me?
If I<br>
 were rich, then indeed; but my income is fifteen thousand francs
a<br>
 year at most, I suppose."</p>

<p><br>
 "Much more than that," said Crevel. "I have doubled your savings
in<br>
 these last two months by investing in <i>Orleans</i>."</p>

<p>"Well, a position in Paris begins with fifty thousand. And
you<br>
 certainly will not make up to me for the position I should
surrender.<br>
 --What was my aim? I want to see Marneffe a first-class clerk;
he will<br>
 then draw a salary of six thousand francs. He has been
twenty-seven<br>
 years in his office; within three years I shall have a right to
a<br>
 pension of fifteen hundred francs when he dies. You, to whom I
have<br>
 been entirely kind, to whom I have given your fill of
happiness--you<br>
 cannot wait!--And that is what men call love!" she
exclaimed.</p>

<p>"Though I began with an ulterior purpose," said Crevel, "I
have become<br>
 your poodle. You trample on my heart, you crush me, you stultify
me,<br>
 and I love you as I have never loved in my life. Valerie, I love
you<br>
 as much as I love my Celestine. I am capable of anything for
your<br>
 sake.--Listen, instead of coming twice a week to the Rue du
Dauphin,<br>
 come three times."</p>

<p>"Is that all! You are quite young again, my dear boy!"</p>

<p>"Only let me pack off Hulot, humiliate him, rid you of him,"
said<br>
 Crevel, not heeding her impertinence! "Have nothing to say to
the<br>
 Brazilian, be mine alone; you shall not repent of it. To begin
with, I<br>
 will give you eight thousand francs a year, secured by bond, but
only<br>
 as an annuity; I will not give you the capital till the end of
five<br>
 years' constancy--"</p>

<p>"Always a bargain! A tradesman can never learn to give. You
want to<br>
 stop for refreshments on the road of love--in the form of
Government<br>
 bonds! Bah! Shopman, pomatum seller! you put a price on
everything!--<br>
 Hector told me that the Duc d'Herouville gave Josepha a bond
for<br>
 thirty thousand francs a year in a packet of sugar almonds! And
I am<br>
 worth six of Josepha.</p>

<p>"Oh! to be loved!" she went on, twisting her ringlets round
her<br>
 fingers, and looking at herself in the glass. "Henri loves me.
He<br>
 would smash you like a fly if I winked at him! Hulot loves me;
he<br>
 leaves his wife in beggary! As for you, go my good man, be the
worthy<br>
 father of a family. You have three hundred thousand francs over
and<br>
 above your fortune, only to amuse yourself, a hoard, in fact,
and you<br>
 think of nothing but increasing it--"</p>

<p>"For you, Valerie, since I offer you half," said he, falling
on his<br>
 knees.</p>

<p>"What, still here!" cried Marneffe, hideous in his
dressing-gown.<br>
 "What are you about?"</p>

<p>"He is begging my pardon, my dear, for an insulting proposal
he has<br>
 dared to make me. Unable to obtain my consent, my gentleman
proposed<br>
 to pay me----"</p>

<p>Crevel only longed to vanish into the cellar, through a trap,
as is<br>
 done on the stage.</p>

<p>"Get up, Crevel," said Marneffe, laughing, "you are
ridiculous. I can<br>
 see by Valerie's manner that my honor is in no danger."</p>

<p>"Go to bed and sleep in peace," said Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>"Isn't she clever?" thought Crevel. "She has saved me. She
is<br>
 adorable!"</p>

<p>As Marneffe disappeared, the Mayor took Valerie's hands and
kissed<br>
 them, leaving on them the traces of tears.</p>

<p>"It shall all stand in your name," he said.</p>

<p>"That is true love," she whispered in his ear. "Well, love for
love.<br>
 Hulot is below, in the street. The poor old thing is waiting to
return<br>
 when I place a candle in one of the windows of my bedroom. I
give you<br>
 leave to tell him that you are the man I love; he will refuse
to<br>
 believe you; take him to the Rue du Dauphin, give him every
proof,<br>
 crush him; I allow it--I order it! I am tired of that old seal;
he<br>
 bores me to death. Keep your man all night in the Rue du
Dauphin,<br>
 grill him over a slow fire, be revenged for the loss of Josepha.
Hulot<br>
 may die of it perhaps, but we shall save his wife and children
from<br>
 utter ruin. Madame Hulot is working for her bread--"</p>

<p>"Oh! poor woman! On my word, it is quite shocking!" exclaimed
Crevel,<br>
 his natural feeling coming to the top.</p>

<p>"If you love me, Celestin," said she in Crevel's ear, which
she<br>
 touched with her lips, "keep him there, or I am done for.
Marneffe is<br>
 suspicious. Hector has a key of the outer gate, and will
certainly<br>
 come back."</p>

<p>Crevel clasped Madame Marneffe to his heart, and went away in
the<br>
 seventh heaven of delight. Valerie fondly escorted him to the
landing,<br>
 and then followed him, like a woman magnetized, down the stairs
to the<br>
 very bottom.</p>

<p>"My Valerie, go back, do not compromise yourself before the
porters.--<br>
 Go back; my life, my treasure, all is yours.--Go in, my
duchess!"</p>

<p>"Madame Olivier," Valerie called gently when the gate was
closed.</p>

<p>"Why, madame! You here?" said the woman in bewilderment.</p>

<p>"Bolt the gates at top and bottom, and let no one in."</p>

<p>"Very good, madame."</p>

<p>Having barred the gate, Madame Olivier told of the bribe that
the War<br>
 Office chief had tried to offer her.</p>

<p>"You behaved like an angel, my dear Olivier; we shall talk of
that<br>
 to-morrow."</p>

<p>Valerie flew like an arrow to the third floor, tapped three
times at<br>
 Lisbeth's door, and then went down to her room, where she
gave<br>
 instructions to Mademoiselle Reine, for a woman must make the
most of<br>
 the opportunity when a Montes arrives from Brazil.</p>

<p>"By Heaven! only a woman of the world is capable of such
love," said<br>
 Crevel to himself. "How she came down those stairs, lighting
them up<br>
 with her eyes, following me! Never did Josepha--Josepha! she is
cag-<br>
 mag!" cried the ex-bagman. "What have I said?
<i>Cag-mag</i>--why, I might<br>
 have let the word slip out at the Tuileries! I can never do any
good<br>
 unless Valerie educates me--and I was so bent on being a
gentleman.--<br>
 What a woman she is! She upsets me like a fit of the colic when
she<br>
 looks at me coldly. What grace! What wit! Never did Josepha move
me<br>
 so. And what perfection when you come to know her!--Ha, there is
my<br>
 man!"</p>

<p>He perceived in the gloom of the Rue de Babylone the tall,
somewhat<br>
 stooping figure of Hulot, stealing along close to a boarding,
and he<br>
 went straight up to him.</p>

<p>"Good-morning, Baron, for it is past midnight, my dear fellow.
What<br>
 the devil are your doing here? You are airing yourself under
a<br>
 pleasant drizzle. That is not wholesome at our time of life.
Will you<br>
 let me give you a little piece of advice? Let each of us go
home; for,<br>
 between you and me, you will not see the candle in the
window."</p>

<p>The last words made the Baron suddenly aware that he was
sixty-three,<br>
 and that his cloak was wet.</p>

<p>"Who on earth told you--?" he began.</p>

<p>"Valerie, of course, <i>our</i> Valerie, who means henceforth
to be <i>my</i><br>
 Valerie. We are even now, Baron; we will play off the tie when
you<br>
 please. You have nothing to complain of; you know, I always
stipulated<br>
 for the right of taking my revenge; it took you three months to
rob me<br>
 of Josepha; I took Valerie from you in--We will say no more
about<br>
 that. Now I mean to have her all to myself. But we can be very
good<br>
 friends, all the same."</p>

<p>"Crevel, no jesting," said Hulot, in a voice choked by rage.
"It is a<br>
 matter of life and death."</p>

<p>"Bless me, is that how you take it!--Baron, do you not
remember what<br>
 you said to me the day of Hortense's marriage: 'Can two old
gaffers<br>
 like us quarrel over a petticoat? It is too low, too common. We
are<br>
 <i>Regence</i>, we agreed, Pompadour, eighteenth century, quite
the<br>
 Marechal Richelieu, Louis XV., nay, and I may say,
<i>Liaisons</i><br>
 <i>dangereuses</i>!"</p>

<p>Crevel might have gone on with his string of literary
allusions; the<br>
 Baron heard him as a deaf man listens when he is but half deaf.
But,<br>
 seeing in the gaslight the ghastly pallor of his face, the
triumphant<br>
 Mayor stopped short. This was, indeed, a thunderbolt after
Madame<br>
 Olivier's asservations and Valerie's parting glance.</p>

<p>"Good God! And there are so many other women in Paris!" he
said at<br>
 last.</p>

<p>"That is what I said to you when you took Josepha," said
Crevel.</p>

<p>"Look here, Crevel, it is impossible. Give me some
proof.--Have you a<br>
 key, as I have, to let yourself in?"</p>

<p>And having reached the house, the Baron put the key into the
lock; but<br>
 the gate was immovable; he tried in vain to open it.</p>

<p>"Do not make a noise in the streets at night," said Crevel
coolly. "I<br>
 tell you, Baron, I have far better proof than you can show."</p>

<p>"Proofs! give me proof!" cried the Baron, almost crazy
with<br>
 exasperation.</p>

<p>"Come, and you shall have them," said Crevel.</p>

<p>And in obedience to Valerie's instructions, he led the Baron
away<br>
 towards the quay, down the Rue Hillerin-Bertin. The unhappy
Baron<br>
 walked on, as a merchant walks on the day before he stops
payment; he<br>
 was lost in conjectures as to the reasons of the depravity
buried in<br>
 the depths of Valerie's heart, and still believed himself the
victim<br>
 of some practical joke. As they crossed the Pont Royal, life
seemed to<br>
 him so blank, so utterly a void, and so out of joint from
his<br>
 financial difficulties, that he was within an ace of yielding to
the<br>
 evil prompting that bid him fling Crevel into the river and
throw<br>
 himself in after.</p>

<p>On reaching the Rue du Dauphin, which had not yet been
widened, Crevel<br>
 stopped before a door in a wall. It opened into a long corridor
paved<br>
 with black-and-white marble, and serving as an entrance-hall, at
the<br>
 end of which there was a flight of stairs and a doorkeeper's
lodge,<br>
 lighted from an inner courtyard, as is often the case in Paris.
This<br>
 courtyard, which was shared with another house, was oddly
divided into<br>
 two unequal portions. Crevel's little house, for he owned it,
had<br>
 additional rooms with a glass skylight, built out on to the
adjoining<br>
 plot, under conditions that it should have no story added above
the<br>
 ground floor, so that the structure was entirely hidden by the
lodge<br>
 and the projecting mass of the staircase.</p>

<p>This back building had long served as a store-room, backshop,
and<br>
 kitchen to one of the shops facing the street. Crevel had cut
off<br>
 these three rooms from the rest of the ground floor, and Grindot
had<br>
 transformed them into an inexpensive private residence. There
were two<br>
 ways in--from the front, through the shop of a furniture-dealer,
to<br>
 whom Crevel let it at a low price, and only from month to month,
so as<br>
 to be able to get rid of him in case of his telling tales, and
also<br>
 through a door in the wall of the passage, so ingeniously hidden
as to<br>
 be almost invisible. The little apartment, comprising a
dining-room,<br>
 drawing-room, and bedroom, all lighted from above, and standing
partly<br>
 on Crevel's ground and partly on his neighbor's, was very
difficult to<br>
 find. With the exception of the second-hand furniture-dealer,
the<br>
 tenants knew nothing of the existence of this little
paradise.</p>

<p>The doorkeeper, paid to keep Crevel's secrets, was a capital
cook. So<br>
 Monsieur le Maire could go in and out of his inexpensive retreat
at<br>
 any hour of the night without any fear of being spied upon. By
day, a<br>
 lady, dressed as Paris women dress to go shopping, and having a
key,<br>
 ran no risk in coming to Crevel's lodgings; she would stop to
look at<br>
 the cheapened goods, ask the price, go into the shop, and come
out<br>
 again, without exciting the smallest suspicion if any one
should<br>
 happen to meet her.</p>

<p>As soon as Crevel had lighted the candles in the sitting-room,
the<br>
 Baron was surprised at the elegance and refinement it displayed.
The<br>
 perfumer had given the architect a free hand, and Grindot had
done<br>
 himself credit by fittings in the Pompadour style, which had in
fact<br>
 cost sixty thousand francs.</p>

<p>"What I want," said Crevel to Grindot, "is that a duchess, if
I<br>
 brought one there, should be surprised at it."</p>

<p>He wanted to have a perfect Parisian Eden for his Eve, his
"real<br>
 lady," his Valerie, his duchess.</p>

<p>"There are two beds," said Crevel to Hulot, showing him a sofa
that<br>
 could be made wide enough by pulling out a drawer. "This is one,
the<br>
 other is in the bedroom. We can both spend the night here."</p>

<p>"Proof!" was all the Baron could say.</p>

<p>Crevel took a flat candlestick and led Hulot into the
adjoining room,<br>
 where he saw, on a sofa, a superb dressing-gown belonging to
Valerie,<br>
 which he had seen her wear in the Rue Vanneau, to display it
before<br>
 wearing it in Crevel's little apartment. The Mayor pressed the
spring<br>
 of a little writing-table of inlaid work, known as a
<i>bonheur-du-</i><br>
 <i>jour</i>, and took out of it a letter that he handed to the
Baron.</p>

<p>"Read that," said he.</p>

<p>The Councillor read these words written in pencil:</p>

<p>"I have waited in vain, you old wretch! A woman of my quality
does<br>
 not expect to be kept waiting by a retired perfumer. There was
no<br>
 dinner ordered--no cigarettes. I will make you pay for
this!"</p>

<p>"Well, is that her writing?"</p>

<p>"Good God!" gasped Hulot, sitting down in dismay. "I see all
the<br>
 things she uses--her caps, her slippers. Why, how long
since--?"</p>

<p>Crevel nodded that he understood, and took a packet of bills
out of<br>
 the little inlaid cabinet.</p>

<p>"You can see, old man. I paid the decorators in December,
1838. In<br>
 October, two months before, this charming little place was
first<br>
 used."</p>

<p>Hulot bent his head.</p>

<p>"How the devil do you manage it? I know how she spends every
hour of<br>
 her day."</p>

<p>"How about her walk in the Tuileries?" said Crevel, rubbing
his hands<br>
 in triumph.</p>

<p>"What then?" said Hulot, mystified.</p>

<p>"Your lady love comes to the Tuileries, she is supposed to be
airing<br>
 herself from one till four. But, hop, skip, and jump, and she is
here.<br>
 You know your Moliere? Well, Baron, there is nothing imaginary
in your<br>
 title."</p>

<p>Hulot, left without a shred of doubt, sat sunk in ominous
silence.<br>
 Catastrophes lead intelligent and strong-minded men to be<br>
 philosophical. The Baron, morally, was at this moment like a
man<br>
 trying to find his way by night through a forest. This
gloomy<br>
 taciturnity and the change in that dejected countenance made
Crevel<br>
 very uneasy, for he did not wish the death of his colleague.</p>

<p>"As I said, old fellow, we are now even; let us play for the
odd. Will<br>
 you play off the tie by hook and by crook? Come!"</p>

<p>"Why," said Hulot, talking to himself--"why is it that out of
ten<br>
 pretty women at least seven are false?"</p>

<p>But the Baron was too much upset to answer his own question.
Beauty is<br>
 the greatest of human gifts for power. Every power that has
no<br>
 counterpoise, no autocratic control, leads to abuses and
folly.<br>
 Despotism is the madness of power; in women the despot is
caprice.</p>

<p>"You have nothing to complain of, my good friend; you have a
beautiful<br>
 wife, and she is virtuous."</p>

<p>"I deserve my fate," said Hulot. "I have undervalued my wife
and made<br>
 her miserable, and she is an angel! Oh, my poor Adeline! you
are<br>
 avenged! She suffers in solitude and silence, and she is worthy
of my<br>
 love; I ought--for she is still charming, fair and girlish
even--But<br>
 was there ever a woman known more base, more ignoble, more
villainous<br>
 than this Valerie?"</p>

<p>"She is a good-for-nothing slut," said Crevel, "a hussy that
deserves<br>
 whipping on the Place du Chatelet. But, my dear Canillac, though
we<br>
 are such blades, so Marechal de Richelieu, Louis XV.,
Pompadour,<br>
 Madame du Barry, gay dogs, and everything that is most
eighteenth<br>
 century, there is no longer a lieutenant of police."</p>

<p>"How can we make them love us?" Hulot wondered to himself
without<br>
 heeding Crevel.</p>

<p>"It is sheer folly in us to expect to be loved, my dear
fellow," said<br>
 Crevel. "We can only be endured; for Madame Marneffe is a
hundred<br>
 times more profligate than Josepha."</p>

<p>"And avaricious! she costs me a hundred and ninety-two
thousand francs<br>
 a year!" cried Hulot.</p>

<p>"And how many centimes!" sneered Crevel, with the insolence of
a<br>
 financier who scorns so small a sum.</p>

<p>"You do not love her, that is very evident," said the Baron
dolefully.</p>

<p>"I have had enough of her," replied Crevel, "for she has had
more than<br>
 three hundred thousand francs of mine!"</p>

<p>"Where is it? Where does it all go?" said the Baron, clasping
his head<br>
 in his hands.</p>

<p>"If we had come to an agreement, like the simple young men who
combine<br>
 to maintain a twopenny baggage, she would have cost us
less."</p>

<p>"That is an idea"! replied the Baron. "But she would still be
cheating<br>
 us; for, my burly friend, what do you say to this
Brazilian?"</p>

<p>"Ay, old sly fox, you are right, we are swindled
like--like<br>
 shareholders!" said Crevel. "All such women are an unlimited<br>
 liability, and we the sleeping partners."</p>

<p>"Then it was she who told you about the candle in the
window?"</p>

<p>"My good man," replied Crevel, striking an attitude, "she has
fooled<br>
 us both. Valerie is a--She told me to keep you here.--Now I see
it<br>
 all. She has got her Brazilian!--Oh, I have done with her, for
if you<br>
 hold her hands, she would find a way to cheat you with her
feet!<br>
 There! she is a minx, a jade!"</p>

<p>"She is lower than a prostitute," said the Baron. "Josepha and
Jenny<br>
 Cadine were in their rights when they were false to us; they
make a<br>
 trade of their charms."</p>

<p>"But she, who affects the saint--the prude!" said Crevel. "I
tell you<br>
 what, Hulot, do you go back to your wife; your money matters are
not<br>
 looking well; I have heard talk of certain notes of hand given
to a<br>
 low usurer whose special line of business is lending to these
sluts, a<br>
 man named Vauvinet. For my part, I am cured of your 'real
ladies.'<br>
 And, after all, at our time of life what do we want of these
swindling<br>
 hussies, who, to be honest, cannot help playing us false? You
have<br>
 white hair and false teeth; I am of the shape of Silenus. I
shall go<br>
 in for saving. Money never deceives one. Though the Treasury is
indeed<br>
 open to all the world twice a year, it pays you interest, and
this<br>
 woman swallows it. With you, my worthy friend, as Gubetta, as
my<br>
 partner in the concern, I might have resigned myself to a
shady<br>
 bargain--no, a philosophical calm. But with a Brazilian who
has<br>
 possibly smuggled in some doubtful colonial produce----"</p>

<p><br>
 "Woman is an inexplicable creature!" said Hulot.</p>

<p>"I can explain her," said Crevel. "We are old; the Brazilian
is young<br>
 and handsome."</p>

<p>"Yes; that, I own, is true," said Hulot; "we are older than we
were.<br>
 But, my dear fellow, how is one to do without these pretty
creatures--<br>
 seeing them undress, twist up their hair, smile cunningly
through<br>
 their fingers as they screw up their curl-papers, put on all
their<br>
 airs and graces, tell all their lies, declare that we don't love
them<br>
 when we are worried with business; and they cheer us in spite
of<br>
 everything."</p>

<p>"Yes, by the Power! It is the only pleasure in life!" cried
Crevel.<br>
 "When a saucy little mug smiles at you and says, 'My old dear,
you<br>
 don't know how nice you are! I am not like other women, I
suppose, who<br>
 go crazy over mere boys with goats' beards, smelling of smoke,
and as<br>
 coarse as serving-men! For in their youth they are so
insolent!--They<br>
 come in and they bid you good-morning, and out they go.--I, whom
you<br>
 think such a flirt, I prefer a man of fifty to these brats. A
man who<br>
 will stick by me, who is devoted, who knows a woman is not to
be<br>
 picked up every day, and appreciates us.--That is what I love
you for,<br>
 you old monster!'--and they fill up these avowals with little
pettings<br>
 and prettinesses and--Faugh! they are as false as the bills on
the<br>
 Hotel de Ville."</p>

<p>"A lie is sometimes better than the truth," said Hulot,
remembering<br>
 sundry bewitching scenes called up by Crevel, who mimicked
Valerie.<br>
 "They are obliged to act upon their lies, to sew spangles on
their<br>
 stage frocks--"</p>

<p>"And they are ours, after all, the lying jades!" said Crevel
coarsely.</p>

<p>"Valerie is a witch," said the Baron. "She can turn an old man
into a<br>
 young one."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes!" said Crevel, "she is an eel that wriggles through
your<br>
 hands; but the prettiest eel, as white and sweet as sugar, as
amusing<br>
 as Arnal--and ingenious!"</p>

<p>"Yes, she is full of fun," said Hulot, who had now quite
forgotten his<br>
 wife.</p>

<p>The colleagues went to bed the best friends in the world,
reminding<br>
 each other of Valerie's perfections, the tones of her voice,
her<br>
 kittenish way, her movements, her fun, her sallies of wit, and
of<br>
 affections; for she was an artist in love, and had charming
impulses,<br>
 as tenors may sing a scena better one day than another. And they
fell<br>
 asleep, cradled in tempting and diabolical visions lighted by
the<br>
 fires of hell.</p>

<p>At nine o'clock next morning Hulot went off to the War Office,
Crevel<br>
 had business out of town; they left the house together, and
Crevel<br>
 held out his hand to the Baron, saying:</p>

<p>"To show that there is no ill-feeling. For we, neither of us,
will<br>
 have anything more to say to Madame Marneffe?"</p>

<p>"Oh, this is the end of everything," replied Hulot with a sort
of<br>
 horror.</p>

<p>By half-past ten Crevel was mounting the stairs, four at a
time, up to<br>
 Madame Marneffe's apartment. He found the infamous wretch,
the<br>
 adorable enchantress, in the most becoming morning wrapper,
enjoying<br>
 an elegant little breakfast in the society of the Baron Montes
de<br>
 Montejanos and Lisbeth. Though the sight of the Brazilian gave
him a<br>
 shock, Crevel begged Madame Marneffe to grant him two minutes'
speech<br>
 with her. Valerie led Crevel into the drawing-room.</p>

<p>"Valerie, my angel," said the amorous Mayor, "Monsieur
Marneffe cannot<br>
 have long to live. If you will be faithful to me, when he dies
we will<br>
 be married. Think it over. I have rid you of Hulot.--So just
consider<br>
 whether this Brazilian is to compare with a Mayor of Paris, a
man who,<br>
 for your sake, will make his way to the highest dignities, and
who can<br>
 already offer you eighty-odd thousand francs a year."</p>

<p>"I will think it over," said she. "You will see me in the Rue
du<br>
 Dauphin at two o'clock, and we can discuss the matter. But be a
good<br>
 boy--and do not forget the bond you promised to transfer to
me."</p>

<p>She returned to the dining-room, followed by Crevel, who
flattered<br>
 himself that he had hit on a plan for keeping Valerie to
himself; but<br>
 there he found Baron Hulot, who, during this short colloquy, had
also<br>
 arrived with the same end in view. He, like Crevel, begged for a
brief<br>
 interview. Madame Marneffe again rose to go to the drawing-room,
with<br>
 a smile at the Brazilian that seemed to say, "What fools they
are!<br>
 Cannot they see you?"</p>

<p>"Valerie," said the official, "my child, that cousin of yours
is an<br>
 American cousin--"</p>

<p>"Oh, that is enough!" she cried, interrupting the Baron.
"Marneffe<br>
 never has been, and never will be, never can be my husband! The
first,<br>
 the only man I ever loved, has come back quite unexpectedly. It
is no<br>
 fault of mine! But look at Henri and look at yourself. Then
ask<br>
 yourself whether a woman, and a woman in love, can hesitate for
a<br>
 moment. My dear fellow, I am not a kept mistress. From this day
forth<br>
 I refuse to play the part of Susannah between the two Elders. If
you<br>
 really care for me, you and Crevel, you will be our friends; but
all<br>
 else is at an end, for I am six-and-twenty, and henceforth I
mean to<br>
 be a saint, an admirable and worthy wife--as yours is."</p>

<p>"Is that what you have to say?" answered Hulot. "Is this the
way you<br>
 receive me when I come like a Pope with my hands full of
Indulgences?<br>
 --Well, your husband will never be a first-class clerk, nor
be<br>
 promoted in the Legion of Honor."</p>

<p>"That remains to be seen," said Madame Marneffe, with a
meaning look<br>
 at Hulot.</p>

<p>"Well, well, no temper," said Hulot in despair. "I will call
this<br>
 evening, and we will come to an understanding."</p>

<p>"In Lisbeth's rooms then."</p>

<p>"Very good--at Lisbeth's," said the old dotard.</p>

<p>Hulot and Crevel went downstairs together without speaking a
word till<br>
 they were in the street; but outside on the sidewalk they looked
at<br>
 each other with a dreary laugh.</p>

<p>"We are a couple of old fools," said Crevel.</p>

<p>"I have got rid of them," said Madame Marneffe to Lisbeth, as
she sat<br>
 down once more. "I never loved and I never shall love any man
but my<br>
 Jaguar," she added, smiling at Henri Montes. "Lisbeth, my dear,
you<br>
 don't know. Henri has forgiven me the infamy to which I was
reduced by<br>
 poverty."</p>

<p>"It was my own fault," said the Brazilian. "I ought to have
sent you a<br>
 hundred thousand francs."</p>

<p>"Poor boy!" said Valerie; "I might have worked for my living,
but my<br>
 fingers were not made for that--ask Lisbeth."</p>

<p>The Brazilian went away the happiest man in Paris.</p>

<p>At noon Valerie and Lisbeth were chatting in the splendid
bedroom<br>
 where this dangerous woman was giving to her dress those
finishing<br>
 touches which a lady alone can give. The doors were bolted,
the<br>
 curtains drawn over them, and Valerie related in every detail
all the<br>
 events of the evening, the night, the morning.</p>

<p>"What do you think of it all, my darling?" she said to Lisbeth
in<br>
 conclusion. "Which shall I be when the time comes--Madame
Crevel, or<br>
 Madame Montes?"</p>

<p>"Crevel will not last more than ten years, such a profligate
as he<br>
 is," replied Lisbeth. "Montes is young. Crevel will leave you
about<br>
 thirty thousand francs a year. Let Montes wait; he will be
happy<br>
 enough as Benjamin. And so, by the time you are
three-and-thirty, if<br>
 you take care of your looks, you may marry your Brazilian and
make a<br>
 fine show with sixty thousand francs a year of your
own--especially<br>
 under the wing of a Marechale."</p>

<p>"Yes, but Montes is a Brazilian; he will never make his
mark,"<br>
 observed Valerie.</p>

<p>"We live in the day of railways," said Lisbeth, "when
foreigners rise<br>
 to high positions in France."</p>

<p>"We shall see," replied Valerie, "when Marneffe is dead. He
has not<br>
 much longer to suffer."</p>

<p>"These attacks that return so often are a sort of physical
remorse,"<br>
 said Lisbeth. "Well, I am off to see Hortense."</p>

<p>"Yes--go, my angel!" replied Valerie. "And bring me my
artist.--Three<br>
 years, and I have not gained an inch of ground! It is a disgrace
to<br>
 both of us!--Wenceslas and Henri--these are my two passions--one
for<br>
 love, the other for fancy."</p>

<p>"You are lovely this morning," said Lisbeth, putting her arm
round<br>
 Valerie's waist and kissing her forehead. "I enjoy all your
pleasures,<br>
 your good fortune, your dresses--I never really lived till the
day<br>
 when we became sisters."</p>

<p>"Wait a moment, my tiger-cat!" cried Valerie, laughing; "your
shawl is<br>
 crooked. You cannot put a shawl on yet in spite of my lessons
for<br>
 three years--and you want to be Madame la Marechale Hulot!"</p>

<p>Shod in prunella boots, over gray silk stockings, in a gown
of<br>
 handsome corded silk, her hair in smooth bands under a very
pretty<br>
 black velvet bonnet, lined with yellow satin, Lisbeth made her
way to<br>
 the Rue Saint-Dominique by the Boulevard des Invalides,
wondering<br>
 whether sheer dejection would at last break down Hortense's
brave<br>
 spirit, and whether Sarmatian instability, taken at a moment
when,<br>
 with such a character, everything is possible, would be too much
for<br>
 Steinbock's constancy.</p>

<p>Hortense and Wenceslas had the ground floor of a house
situated at the<br>
 corner of the Rue Saint-Dominique and the Esplanade des
Invalides.<br>
 These rooms, once in harmony with the honeymoon, now had that
half-<br>
 new, half-faded look that may be called the autumnal aspect
of<br>
 furniture. Newly married folks are as lavish and wasteful,
without<br>
 knowing it or intending it, of everything about them as they are
of<br>
 their affection. Thinking only of themselves, they reck little
of the<br>
 future, which, at a later time, weighs on the mother of a
family.</p>

<p>Lisbeth found Hortense just as she had finished dressing a
baby<br>
 Wenceslas, who had been carried into the garden.</p>

<p>"Good-morning, Betty," said Hortense, opening the door herself
to her<br>
 cousin. The cook was gone out, and the house-servant, who was
also the<br>
 nurse, was doing some washing.</p>

<p>"Good-morning, dear child," replied Lisbeth, kissing her.
"Is<br>
 Wenceslas in the studio?" she added in a whisper.</p>

<p>"No; he is in the drawing-room talking to Stidmann and
Chanor."</p>

<p>"Can we be alone?" asked Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Come into my room."</p>

<p>In this room, the hangings of pink-flowered chintz with green
leaves<br>
 on a white ground, constantly exposed to the sun, were much
faded, as<br>
 was the carpet. The muslin curtains had not been washed for many
a<br>
 day. The smell of tobacco hung about the room; for Wenceslas,
now an<br>
 artist of repute, and born a fine gentleman, left his cigar-ash
on the<br>
 arms of the chairs and the prettiest pieces of furniture, as a
man<br>
 does to whom love allows everything--a man rich enough to scorn
vulgar<br>
 carefulness.</p>

<p>"Now, then, let us talk over your affairs," said Lisbeth,
seeing her<br>
 pretty cousin silent in the armchair into which she had dropped.
"But<br>
 what ails you? You look rather pale, my dear."</p>

<p>"Two articles have just come out in which my poor Wenceslas is
pulled<br>
 to pieces; I have read them, but I have hidden them from him,
for they<br>
 would completely depress him. The marble statue of Marshal
Montcornet<br>
 is pronounced utterly bad. The bas-reliefs are allowed to pass
muster,<br>
 simply to allow of the most perfidious praise of his talent as
a<br>
 decorative artist, and to give the greater emphasis to the
statement<br>
 that serious art is quite out of his reach! Stidmann, whom I
besought<br>
 to tell me the truth, broke my heart by confessing that his
own<br>
 opinion agreed with that of every other artist, of the critics,
and<br>
 the public. He said to me in the garden before breakfast,
'If<br>
 Wenceslas cannot exhibit a masterpiece next season, he must give
up<br>
 heroic sculpture and be content to execute idyllic subjects,
small<br>
 figures, pieces of jewelry, and high-class goldsmiths' work!'
This<br>
 verdict is dreadful to me, for Wenceslas, I know, will never
accept<br>
 it; he feels he has so many fine ideas."</p>

<p>"Ideas will not pay the tradesman's bills," remarked Lisbeth.
"I was<br>
 always telling him so--nothing but money. Money is only to be
had for<br>
 work done--things that ordinary folks like well enough to buy
them.<br>
 When an artist has to live and keep a family, he had far better
have a<br>
 design for a candlestick on his counter, or for a fender or a
table,<br>
 than for groups or statues. Everybody must have such things,
while he<br>
 may wait months for the admirer of the group--and for his
money---"</p>

<p>"You are right, my good Lisbeth. Tell him all that; I have not
the<br>
 courage.--Besides, as he was saying to Stidmann, if he goes back
to<br>
 ornamental work and small sculpture, he must give up all hope of
the<br>
 Institute and grand works of art, and we should not get the
three<br>
 hundred thousand francs' worth of work promised at Versailles
and by<br>
 the City of Paris and the Ministers. That is what we are robbed
of by<br>
 those dreadful articles, written by rivals who want to step into
our<br>
 shoes."</p>

<p>"And that is not what you dreamed of, poor little puss!" said
Lisbeth,<br>
 kissing Hortense on the brow. "You expected to find a gentleman,
a<br>
 leader of Art, the chief of all living sculptors.--But that is
poetry,<br>
 you see, a dream requiring fifty thousand francs a year, and you
have<br>
 only two thousand four hundred--so long as I live. After my
death<br>
 three thousand."</p>

<p>A few tears rose to Hortense's eyes, and Lisbeth drank them
with her<br>
 eyes as a cat laps milk.</p>

<p>This is the story of their honeymoon--the tale will perhaps
not be<br>
 lost on some artists.</p>

<p>Intellectual work, labor in the upper regions of mental
effort, is one<br>
 of the grandest achievements of man. That which deserves real
glory in<br>
 Art--for by Art we must understand every creation of the
mind--is<br>
 courage above all things--a sort of courage of which the vulgar
have<br>
 no conception, and which has never perhaps been described till
now.</p>

<p>Driven by the dreadful stress of poverty, goaded by Lisbeth,
and kept<br>
 by her in blinders, as a horse is, to hinder it from seeing to
the<br>
 right and left of its road, lashed on by that hard woman,
the<br>
 personification of Necessity, a sort of deputy Fate, Wenceslas,
a born<br>
 poet and dreamer, had gone on from conception to execution,
and<br>
 overleaped, without sounding it, the gulf that divides these
two<br>
 hemispheres of Art. To muse, to dream, to conceive of fine
works, is a<br>
 delightful occupation. It is like smoking a magic cigar or
leading the<br>
 life of a courtesan who follows her own fancy. The work then
floats in<br>
 all the grace of infancy, in the mad joy of conception, with
the<br>
 fragrant beauty of a flower, and the aromatic juices of a
fruit<br>
 enjoyed in anticipation.</p>

<p><br>
 The man who can sketch his purpose beforehand in words is
regarded as<br>
 a wonder, and every artist and writer possesses that faculty.
But<br>
 gestation, fruition, the laborious rearing of the offspring,
putting<br>
 it to bed every night full fed with milk, embracing it anew
every<br>
 morning with the inexhaustible affection of a mother's heart,
licking<br>
 it clean, dressing it a hundred times in the richest garb only
to be<br>
 instantly destroyed; then never to be cast down at the
convulsions of<br>
 this headlong life till the living masterpiece is perfected
which in<br>
 sculpture speaks to every eye, in literature to every intellect,
in<br>
 painting to every memory, in music to every heart!--This is the
task<br>
 of execution. The hand must be ready at every instant to come
forward<br>
 and obey the brain. But the brain has no more a creative power
at<br>
 command than love has a perennial spring.</p>

<p>The habit of creativeness, the indefatigable love of
motherhood which<br>
 makes a mother--that miracle of nature which Raphael so
perfectly<br>
 understood--the maternity of the brain, in short, which is
so<br>
 difficult to develop, is lost with prodigious ease. Inspiration
is the<br>
 opportunity of genius. She does not indeed dance on the razor's
edge,<br>
 she is in the air and flies away with the suspicious swiftness
of a<br>
 crow; she wears no scarf by which the poet can clutch her; her
hair is<br>
 a flame; she vanishes like the lovely rose and white flamingo,
the<br>
 sportsman's despair. And work, again, is a weariful struggle,
alike<br>
 dreaded and delighted in by these lofty and powerful natures who
are<br>
 often broken by it. A great poet of our day has said in speaking
of<br>
 this overwhelming labor, "I sit down to it in despair, but I
leave it<br>
 with regret." Be it known to all who are ignorant! If the artist
does<br>
 not throw himself into his work as Curtius sprang into the gulf,
as a<br>
 soldier leads a forlorn hope without a moment's thought, and if
when<br>
 he is in the crater he does not dig on as a miner does when the
earth<br>
 has fallen in on him; if he contemplates the difficulties before
him<br>
 instead of conquering them one by one, like the lovers in fairy
tales,<br>
 who to win their princesses overcome ever new enchantments, the
work<br>
 remains incomplete; it perishes in the studio where
creativeness<br>
 becomes impossible, and the artist looks on at the suicide of
his own<br>
 talent.</p>

<p>Rossini, a brother genius to Raphael, is a striking instance
in his<br>
 poverty-stricken youth, compared with his latter years of
opulence.<br>
 This is the reason why the same prize, the same triumph, the
same bays<br>
 are awarded to great poets and to great generals.</p>

<p>Wenceslas, by nature a dreamer, had expended so much energy
in<br>
 production, in study, and in work under Lisbeth's despotic rule,
that<br>
 love and happiness resulted in reaction. His real character<br>
 reappeared, the weakness, recklessness, and indolence of the
Sarmatian<br>
 returned to nestle in the comfortable corners of his soul,
whence the<br>
 schoolmaster's rod had routed them.</p>

<p>For the first few months the artist adored his wife. Hortense
and<br>
 Wenceslas abandoned themselves to the happy childishness of
a<br>
 legitimate and unbounded passion. Hortense was the first to
release<br>
 her husband from his labors, proud to triumph over her rival,
his Art.<br>
 And, indeed, a woman's caresses scare away the Muse, and break
down<br>
 the sturdy, brutal resolution of the worker.</p>

<p>Six or seven months slipped by, and the artist's fingers had
forgotten<br>
 the use of the modeling tool. When the need for work began to be
felt,<br>
 when the Prince de Wissembourg, president of the committee
of<br>
 subscribers, asked to see the statue, Wenceslas spoke the
inevitable<br>
 byword of the idler, "I am just going to work on it," and he
lulled<br>
 his dear Hortense with fallacious promises and the magnificent
schemes<br>
 of the artist as he smokes. Hortense loved her poet more than
ever;<br>
 she dreamed of a sublime statue of Marshal Montcornet.
Montcornet<br>
 would be the embodied ideal of bravery, the type of the
cavalry<br>
 officer, of courage <i>a la Murat</i>. Yes, yes; at the mere
sight of that<br>
 statue all the Emperor's victories were to seem a foregone
conclusion.<br>
 And then such workmanship! The pencil was accommodating and
answered<br>
 to the word.</p>

<p>By way of a statue the result was a delightful little
Wenceslas.</p>

<p>When the progress of affairs required that he should go to the
studio<br>
 at le Gros-Caillou to mould the clay and set up the life-size
model,<br>
 Steinbock found one day that the Prince's clock required his
presence<br>
 in the workshop of Florent and Chanor, where the figures were
being<br>
 finished; or, again, the light was gray and dull; to-day he
had<br>
 business to do, to-morrow they had a family dinner, to say
nothing of<br>
 indispositions of mind and body, and the days when he stayed at
home<br>
 to toy with his adored wife.</p>

<p>Marshal the Prince de Wissembourg was obliged to be angry to
get the<br>
 clay model finished; he declared that he must put the work into
other<br>
 hands. It was only by dint of endless complaints and much
strong<br>
 language that the committee of subscribers succeeded in seeing
the<br>
 plaster-cast. Day after day Steinbock came home, evidently
tired,<br>
 complaining of this "hodman's work" and his own physical
weakness.<br>
 During that first year the household felt no pinch; the
Countess<br>
 Steinbock, desperately in love with her husband cursed the
War<br>
 Minister. She went to see him; she told him that great works of
art<br>
 were not to be manufactured like cannon; and that the
State--like<br>
 Louis XIV., Francis I., and Leo X.--ought to be at the beck and
call<br>
 of genius. Poor Hortense, believing she held a Phidias in her
embrace,<br>
 had the sort of motherly cowardice for her Wenceslas that is in
every<br>
 wife who carries her love to the pitch of idolatry.</p>

<p>"Do not be hurried," said she to her husband, "our whole
future life<br>
 is bound up with that statue. Take your time and produce a<br>
 masterpiece."</p>

<p>She would go to the studio, and then the enraptured Steinbock
wasted<br>
 five hours out of seven in describing the statue instead of
working at<br>
 it. He thus spent eighteen months in finishing the design, which
to<br>
 him was all-important.</p>

<p>When the plaster was cast and the model complete, poor
Hortense, who<br>
 had looked on at her husband's toil, seeing his health really
suffer<br>
 from the exertions which exhaust a sculptor's frame and arms and
hands<br>
 --Hortense thought the result admirable. Her father, who knew
nothing<br>
 of sculpture, and her mother, no less ignorant, lauded it as
a<br>
 triumph; the War Minister came with them to see it, and,
overruled by<br>
 them, expressed approval of the figure, standing as it did
alone, in a<br>
 favorable light, thrown up against a green baize background.</p>

<p>Alas! at the exhibition of 1841, the disapprobation of the
public soon<br>
 took the form of abuse and mockery in the mouths of those who
were<br>
 indignant with the idol too hastily set up for worship. Stidmann
tried<br>
 to advise his friend, but was accused of jealousy. Every article
in a<br>
 newspaper was to Hortense an outcry of envy. Stidmann, the best
of<br>
 good fellows, got articles written, in which adverse criticism
was<br>
 contravened, and it was pointed out that sculptors altered their
works<br>
 in translating the plaster into marble, and that the marble
would be<br>
 the test.</p>

<p>"In reproducing the plaster sketch in marble," wrote Claude
Vignon, "a<br>
 masterpiece may be ruined, or a bad design made beautiful. The
plaster<br>
 is the manuscript, the marble is the book."</p>

<p>So in two years and a half Wenceslas had produced a statue and
a son.<br>
 The child was a picture of beauty; the statue was execrable.</p>

<p>The clock for the Prince and the price of the statue paid off
the<br>
 young couple's debts. Steinbock had acquired fashionable habits;
he<br>
 went to the play, to the opera; he talked admirably about art;
and in<br>
 the eyes of the world he maintained his reputation as a great
artist<br>
 by his powers of conversation and criticism. There are many
clever men<br>
 in Paris who spend their lives in talking themselves out, and
are<br>
 content with a sort of drawing-room celebrity. Steinbock,
emulating<br>
 these emasculated but charming men, grew every day more averse
to hard<br>
 work. As soon as he began a thing, he was conscious of all
its<br>
 difficulties, and the discouragement that came over him
enervated his<br>
 will. Inspiration, the frenzy of intellectual procreation,
flew<br>
 swiftly away at the sight of this effete lover.</p>

<p>Sculpture--like dramatic art--is at once the most difficult
and the<br>
 easiest of all arts. You have but to copy a model, and the task
is<br>
 done; but to give it a soul, to make it typical by creating a
man or a<br>
 woman--this is the sin of Prometheus. Such triumphs in the
annals of<br>
 sculpture may be counted, as we may count the few poets among
men.<br>
 Michael Angelo, Michel Columb, Jean Goujon, Phidias,
Praxiteles,<br>
 Polycletes, Puget, Canova, Albert Durer, are the brothers of
Milton,<br>
 Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Tasso, Homer, and Moliere. And such
an<br>
 achievement is so stupendous that a single statue is enough to
make a<br>
 man immortal, as Figaro, Lovelace, and Manon Lescaut have
immortalized<br>
 Beaumarchais, Richardson, and the Abbe Prevost.</p>

<p>Superficial thinkers--and there are many in the artist
world--have<br>
 asserted that sculpture lives only by the nude, that it died
with the<br>
 Greeks, and that modern vesture makes it impossible. But, in the
first<br>
 place, the Ancients have left sublime statues entirely
clothed--the<br>
 <i>Polyhymnia</i>, the <i>Julia</i>, and others, and we have not
found one-tenth<br>
 of all their works; and then, let any lover of art go to
Florence and<br>
 see Michael Angelo's <i>Penseroso</i>, or to the Cathedral of
Mainz, and<br>
 behold the <i>Virgin</i> by Albert Durer, who has created a
living woman<br>
 out of ebony, under her threefold drapery, with the most
flowing, the<br>
 softest hair that ever a waiting-maid combed through; let all
the<br>
 ignorant flock thither, and they will acknowledge that genius
can give<br>
 mind to drapery, to armor, to a robe, and fill it with a body,
just as<br>
 a man leaves the stamp of his individuality and habits of life
on the<br>
 clothes he wears.</p>

<p>Sculpture is the perpetual realization of the fact which once,
and<br>
 never again, was, in painting called Raphael!</p>

<p>The solution of this hard problem is to be found only in
constant<br>
 persevering toil; for, merely to overcome the material
difficulties to<br>
 such an extent, the hand must be so practised, so dexterous
and<br>
 obedient, that the sculptor may be free to struggle soul to soul
with<br>
 the elusive moral element that he has to transfigure as he
embodies<br>
 it. If Paganini, who uttered his soul through the strings of
his<br>
 violin, spent three days without practising, he lost what he
called<br>
 the <i>stops</i> of his instrument, meaning the sympathy between
the wooden<br>
 frame, the strings, the bow, and himself; if he had lost
this<br>
 alliance, he would have been no more than an ordinary
player.</p>

<p>Perpetual work is the law of art, as it is the law of life,
for art is<br>
 idealized creation. Hence great artists and perfect poets wait
neither<br>
 for commission nor for purchasers. They are constantly
creating--<br>
 to-day, to-morrow, always. The result is the habit of work,
the<br>
 unfailing apprehension of the difficulties which keep them in
close<br>
 intercourse with the Muse and her productive forces. Canova
lived in<br>
 his studio, as Voltaire lived in his study; and so must Homer
and<br>
 Phidias have lived.</p>

<p>While Lisbeth kept Wenceslas Steinbock in thraldom in his
garret, he<br>
 was on the thorny road trodden by all these great men, which
leads to<br>
 the Alpine heights of glory. Then happiness, in the person
of<br>
 Hortense, had reduced the poet to idleness--the normal condition
of<br>
 all artists, since to them idleness is fully occupied. Their joy
is<br>
 such as that of the pasha of a seraglio; they revel with ideas,
they<br>
 get drunk at the founts of intellect. Great artists, such as<br>
 Steinbock, wrapped in reverie, are rightly spoken of as
dreamers.<br>
 They, like opium-eaters, all sink into poverty, whereas if they
had<br>
 been kept up to the mark by the stern demands of life, they
might have<br>
 been great men.</p>

<p><br>
 At the same time, these half-artists are delightful; men like
them and<br>
 cram them with praise; they even seem superior to the true
artists,<br>
 who are taxed with conceit, unsociableness, contempt of the laws
of<br>
 society. This is why: Great men are the slaves of their work.
Their<br>
 indifference to outer things, their devotion to their work,
make<br>
 simpletons regard them as egotists, and they are expected to
wear the<br>
 same garb as the dandy who fulfils the trivial evolutions
called<br>
 social duties. These men want the lions of the Atlas to be
combed and<br>
 scented like a lady's poodle.</p>

<p>These artists, who are too rarely matched to meet their
fellows, fall<br>
 into habits of solitary exclusiveness; they are inexplicable to
the<br>
 majority, which, as we know, consists mostly of fools--of the
envious,<br>
 the ignorant, and the superficial.</p>

<p>Now you may imagine what part a wife should play in the life
of these<br>
 glorious and exceptional beings. She ought to be what, for five
years,<br>
 Lisbeth had been, but with the added offering of love, humble
and<br>
 patient love, always ready and always smiling.</p>

<p>Hortense, enlightened by her anxieties as a mother, and driven
by dire<br>
 necessity, had discovered too late the mistakes she had been<br>
 involuntarily led into by her excessive love. Still, the
worthy<br>
 daughter of her mother, her heart ached at the thought of
worrying<br>
 Wenceslas; she loved her dear poet too much to become his
torturer;<br>
 and she could foresee the hour when beggary awaited her, her
child,<br>
 and her husband.</p>

<p>"Come, come, my child," said Lisbeth, seeing the tears in her
cousin's<br>
 lovely eyes, "you must not despair. A glassful of tears will not
buy a<br>
 plate of soup. How much do you want?"</p>

<p>"Well, five or six thousand francs."</p>

<p>"I have but three thousand at the most," said Lisbeth. "And
what is<br>
 Wenceslas doing now?"</p>

<p>"He has had an offer to work in partnership with Stidmann at a
table<br>
 service for the Duc d'Herouville for six thousand francs.
Then<br>
 Monsieur Chanor will advance four thousand to repay Monsieur de
Lora<br>
 and Bridau--a debt of honor."</p>

<p>"What, you have had the money for the statue and the
bas-reliefs for<br>
 Marshal Montcornet's monument, and you have not paid them
yet?"</p>

<p>"For the last three years," said Hortense, "we have spent
twelve<br>
 thousand francs a year, and I have but a hundred louis a year of
my<br>
 own. The Marshal's monument, when all the expenses were paid,
brought<br>
 us no more than sixteen thousand francs. Really and truly,
if<br>
 Wenceslas gets no work, I do not know what is to become of us.
Oh, if<br>
 only I could learn to make statues, I would handle the clay!"
she<br>
 cried, holding up her fine arms.</p>

<p>The woman, it was plain, fulfilled the promise of the girl;
there was<br>
 a flash in her eye; impetuous blood, strong with iron, flowed in
her<br>
 veins; she felt that she was wasting her energy in carrying
her<br>
 infant.</p>

<p>"Ah, my poor little thing! a sensible girl should not marry an
artist<br>
 till his fortune is made--not while it is still to make."</p>

<p>At this moment they heard voices; Stidmann and Wenceslas were
seeing<br>
 Chanor to the door; then Wenceslas and Stidmann came in
again.</p>

<p>Stidmann, an artist in vogue in the world of journalists,
famous<br>
 actresses, and courtesans of the better class, was a young man
of<br>
 fashion whom Valerie much wished to see in her rooms; indeed, he
had<br>
 already been introduced to her by Claude Vignon. Stidmann had
lately<br>
 broken off an intimacy with Madame Schontz, who had married
some<br>
 months since and gone to live in the country. Valerie and
Lisbeth,<br>
 hearing of this upheaval from Claude Vignon, thought it well to
get<br>
 Steinbock's friend to visit in the Rue Vanneau.</p>

<p>Stidmann, out of good feeling, went rarely to the Steinbocks';
and as<br>
 it happened that Lisbeth was not present when he was introduced
by<br>
 Claude Vignon, she now saw him for the first time. As she
watched this<br>
 noted artist, she caught certain glances from his eyes at
Hortense,<br>
 which suggested to her the possibility of offering him to the
Countess<br>
 Steinbock as a consolation if Wenceslas should be false to her.
In<br>
 point of fact, Stidmann was reflecting that if Steinbock were
not his<br>
 friend, Hortense, the young and superbly beautiful countess,
would be<br>
 an adorable mistress; it was this very notion, controlled by
honor,<br>
 that kept him away from the house. Lisbeth was quick to mark
the<br>
 significant awkwardness that troubles a man in the presence of a
woman<br>
 with whom he will not allow himself to flirt.</p>

<p>"Very good-looking--that young man," said she in a whisper
to<br>
 Hortense.</p>

<p>"Oh, do you think so?" she replied. "I never noticed him."</p>

<p>"Stidmann, my good fellow," said Wenceslas, in an undertone to
his<br>
 friend, "we are on no ceremony, you and I--we have some business
to<br>
 settle with this old girl."</p>

<p>Stidmann bowed to the ladies and went away.</p>

<p>"It is settled," said Wenceslas, when he came in from taking
leave of<br>
 Stidmann. "But there are six months' work to be done, and we
must live<br>
 meanwhile."</p>

<p>"There are my diamonds," cried the young Countess, with the
impetuous<br>
 heroism of a loving woman.</p>

<p>A tear rose in Wenceslas' eye.</p>

<p>"Oh, I am going to work," said he, sitting down by his wife
and<br>
 drawing her on to his knee. "I will do odd jobs--a wedding
chest,<br>
 bronze groups----"</p>

<p>"But, my children," said Lisbeth; "for, as you know, you will
be my<br>
 heirs, and I shall leave you a very comfortable sum, believe
me,<br>
 especially if you help me to marry the Marshal; nay, if we
succeed in<br>
 that quickly, I will take you all to board with me--you and
Adeline.<br>
 We should live very happily together.--But for the moment,
listen to<br>
 the voice of my long experience. Do not fly to the
Mont-de-Piete; it<br>
 is the ruin of the borrower. I have always found that when
the<br>
 interest was due, those who had pledged their things had
nothing<br>
 wherewith to pay up, and then all is lost. I can get you a loan
at<br>
 five per cent on your note of hand."</p>

<p>"Oh, we are saved!" said Hortense.</p>

<p>"Well, then, child, Wenceslas had better come with me to see
the<br>
 lender, who will oblige him at my request. It is Madame
Marneffe. If<br>
 you flatter her a little--for she is as vain as a
<i>parvenue</i>--she will<br>
 get you out of the scrape in the most obliging way. Come
yourself and<br>
 see her, my dear Hortense."</p>

<p>Hortense looked at her husband with the expression a man
condemned to<br>
 death must wear on his way to the scaffold.</p>

<p>"Claude Vignon took Stidmann there," said Wenceslas. "He says
it is a<br>
 very pleasant house."</p>

<p>Hortense's head fell. What she felt can only be expressed in
one word;<br>
 it was not pain; it was illness.</p>

<p>"But, my dear Hortense, you must learn something of life!"
exclaimed<br>
 Lisbeth, understanding the eloquence of her cousin's looks.<br>
 "Otherwise, like your mother, you will find yourself abandoned
in a<br>
 deserted room, where you will weep like Calypso on the departure
of<br>
 Ulysses, and at an age when there is no hope of Telemachus--"
she<br>
 added, repeating a jest of Madame Marneffe's. "We have to regard
the<br>
 people in the world as tools which we can make use of or let
alone,<br>
 according as they can serve our turn. Make use of Madame
Marneffe now,<br>
 my dears, and let her alone by and by. Are you afraid lest
Wenceslas,<br>
 who worships you, should fall in love with a woman four or five
years<br>
 older than himself, as yellow as a bundle of field peas,
and----?"</p>

<p>"I would far rather pawn my diamonds," said Hortense. "Oh,
never go<br>
 there, Wenceslas!--It is hell!"</p>

<p>"Hortense is right," said Steinbock, kissing his wife.</p>

<p>"Thank you, my dearest," said Hortense, delighted. "My husband
is an<br>
 angel, you see, Lisbeth. He does not gamble, he goes nowhere
without<br>
 me; if he only could stick to work--oh, I should be too happy.
Why<br>
 take us on show to my father's mistress, a woman who is ruining
him<br>
 and is the cause of troubles that are killing my heroic
mother?"</p>

<p>"My child, that is not where the cause of your father's ruin
lies. It<br>
 was his singer who ruined him, and then your marriage!" replied
her<br>
 cousin. "Bless me! why, Madame Marneffe is of the greatest use
to him.<br>
 However, I must tell no tales."</p>

<p>"You have a good word for everybody, dear Betty--"</p>

<p>Hortense was called into the garden by hearing the child cry;
Lisbeth<br>
 was left alone with Wenceslas.</p>

<p>"You have an angel for your wife, Wenceslas!" said she. "Love
her as<br>
 you ought; never give her cause for grief."</p>

<p>"Yes, indeed, I love her so well that I do not tell her all,"
replied<br>
 Wenceslas; "but to you, Lisbeth, I may confess the truth.--If I
took<br>
 my wife's diamonds to the Monte-de-Piete, we should be no
further<br>
 forward."</p>

<p>"Then borrow of Madame Marneffe," said Lisbeth. "Persuade
Hortense,<br>
 Wenceslas, to let you go there, or else, bless me! go there
without<br>
 telling her."</p>

<p>"That is what I was thinking of," replied Wenceslas, "when I
refused<br>
 for fear of grieving Hortense."</p>

<p>"Listen to me; I care too much for you both not to warn you of
your<br>
 danger. If you go there, hold your heart tight in both hands,
for the<br>
 woman is a witch. All who see her adore her; she is so wicked,
so<br>
 inviting! She fascinates men like a masterpiece. Borrow her
money, but<br>
 do not leave your soul in pledge. I should never be happy again
if you<br>
 were false to Hortense--here she is! not another word! I will
settle<br>
 the matter."</p>

<p>"Kiss Lisbeth, my darling," said Wenceslas to his wife. "She
will help<br>
 us out of our difficulties by lending us her savings."</p>

<p>And he gave Lisbeth a look which she understood.</p>

<p>"Then, I hope you mean to work, my dear treasure," said
Hortense.</p>

<p>"Yes, indeed," said the artist. "I will begin to-morrow."</p>

<p>"To-morrow is our ruin!" said his wife, with a smile.</p>

<p>"Now, my dear child! say yourself whether some hindrance has
not come<br>
 in the way every day; some obstacle or business?"</p>

<p>"Yes, very true, my love."</p>

<p>"Here!" cried Steinbock, striking his brow, "here I have
swarms of<br>
 ideas! I mean to astonish all my enemies. I am going to design
a<br>
 service in the German style of the sixteenth century; the
romantic<br>
 style: foliage twined with insects, sleeping children, newly
invented<br>
 monsters, chimeras--real chimeras, such as we dream of!--I see
it all!<br>
 It will be undercut, light, and yet crowded. Chanor was quite
amazed.<br>
 --And I wanted some encouragement, for the last article on<br>
 Montcornet's monument had been crushing."</p>

<p>At a moment in the course of the day when Lisbeth and
Wenceslas were<br>
 left together, the artist agreed to go on the morrow to see
Madame<br>
 Marneffe--he either would win his wife's consent, or he would
go<br>
 without telling her.</p>

<p>Valerie, informed the same evening of this success, insisted
that<br>
 Hulot should go to invite Stidmann, Claude Vignon, and Steinbock
to<br>
 dinner; for she was beginning to tyrannize over him as women of
that<br>
 type tyrannize over old men, who trot round town, and go to
make<br>
 interest with every one who is necessary to the interests or
the<br>
 vanity of their task-mistress.</p>

<p>Next evening Valerie armed herself for conquest by making such
a<br>
 toilet as a Frenchwoman can devise when she wishes to make the
most of<br>
 herself. She studied her appearance in this great work as a man
going<br>
 out to fight a duel practises his feints and lunges. Not a
speck, not<br>
 a wrinkle was to be seen. Valerie was at her whitest, her
softest, her<br>
 sweetest. And certain little "patches" attracted the eye.</p>

<p>It is commonly supposed that the patch of the eighteenth
century is<br>
 out of date or out of fashion; that is a mistake. In these days
women,<br>
 more ingenious perhaps than of yore, invite a glance through
the<br>
 opera-glass by other audacious devices. One is the first to hit
on a<br>
 rosette in her hair with a diamond in the centre, and she
attracts<br>
 every eye for a whole evening; another revives the hair-net, or
sticks<br>
 a dagger through the twist to suggest a garter; this one wears
velvet<br>
 bands round her wrists, that one appears in lace lippets.
These<br>
 valiant efforts, an Austerlitz of vanity or of love, then set
the<br>
 fashion for lower spheres by the time the inventive creatress
has<br>
 originated something new. This evening, which Valerie meant to
be a<br>
 success for her, she had placed three patches. She had washed
her hair<br>
 with some lye, which changed its hue for a few days from a gold
color<br>
 to a duller shade. Madame Steinbock's was almost red, and she
would be<br>
 in every point unlike her. This new effect gave her a piquant
and<br>
 strange appearance, which puzzled her followers so much, that
Montes<br>
 asked her:</p>

<p>"What have you done to yourself this evening?"--Then she put
on a<br>
 rather wide black velvet neck-ribbon, which showed off the
whiteness<br>
 of her skin. One patch took the place of the <i>assassine</i> of
our<br>
 grandmothers. And Valerie pinned the sweetest rosebud into her
bodice,<br>
 just in the middle above the stay-busk, and in the daintiest
little<br>
 hollow! It was enough to make every man under thirty drop his
eyelids.</p>

<p>"I am as sweet as a sugar-plum," said she to herself, going
through<br>
 her attitudes before the glass, exactly as a dancer practises
her<br>
 curtesies.</p>

<p>Lisbeth had been to market, and the dinner was to be one of
those<br>
 superfine meals which Mathurine had been wont to cook for her
Bishop<br>
 when he entertained the prelate of the adjoining diocese.</p>

<p>Stidmann, Claude Vignon, and Count Steinbock arrived almost
together,<br>
 just at six. An ordinary, or, if you will, a natural woman would
have<br>
 hastened at the announcement of a name so eagerly longed for;
but<br>
 Valerie, though ready since five o'clock, remained in her
room,<br>
 leaving her three guests together, certain that she was the
subject of<br>
 their conversation or of their secret thoughts. She herself
had<br>
 arranged the drawing-room, laying out the pretty trifles
produced in<br>
 Paris and nowhere else, which reveal the woman and announce
her<br>
 presence: albums bound in enamel or embroidered with beads,
saucers<br>
 full of pretty rings, marvels of Sevres or Dresden mounted
exquisitely<br>
 by Florent and Chanor, statues, books, all the frivolities which
cost<br>
 insane sums, and which passion orders of the makers in its
first<br>
 delirium--or to patch up its last quarrel.</p>

<p>Besides, Valerie was in the state of intoxication that comes
of<br>
 triumph. She had promised to marry Crevel if Marneffe should
die; and<br>
 the amorous Crevel had transferred to the name of Valerie Fortin
bonds<br>
 bearing ten thousand francs a year, the sum-total of what he had
made<br>
 in railway speculations during the past three years, the returns
on<br>
 the capital of a hundred thousand crowns which he had at first
offered<br>
 to the Baronne Hulot. So Valerie now had an income of
thirty-two<br>
 thousand francs.</p>

<p>Crevel had just committed himself to a promise of far
greater<br>
 magnitude than this gift of his surplus. In the paroxysm of
rapture<br>
 which <i>his Duchess</i> had given him from two to four--he gave
this fine<br>
 title to Madame <i>de</i> Marneffe to complete the illusion--for
Valerie<br>
 had surpassed herself in the Rue du Dauphin that afternoon, he
had<br>
 thought well to encourage her in her promised fidelity by giving
her<br>
 the prospect of a certain little mansion, built in the Rue
Barbette by<br>
 an imprudent contractor, who now wanted to sell it. Valerie
could<br>
 already see herself in this delightful residence, with a
fore-court<br>
 and a garden, and keeping a carriage!</p>

<p><br>
 "What respectable life can ever procure so much in so short a
time, or<br>
 so easily?" said she to Lisbeth as she finished dressing.
Lisbeth was<br>
 to dine with Valerie that evening, to tell Steinbock those
things<br>
 about the lady which nobody can say about herself.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe, radiant with satisfaction, came into the
drawing-room<br>
 with modest grace, followed by Lisbeth dressed in black and
yellow to<br>
 set her off.</p>

<p>"Good-evening, Claude," said she, giving her hand to the
famous old<br>
 critic.</p>

<p>Claude Vignon, like many another, had become a political
personage--a<br>
 word describing an ambitious man at the first stage of his
career. The<br>
 <i>political personage</i> of 1840 represents, in some degree,
the <i>Abbe</i><br>
 of the eighteenth century. No drawing-room circle is complete
without<br>
 one.</p>

<p>"My dear, this is my cousin, Count Steinbock," said
Lisbeth,<br>
 introducing Wenceslas, whom Valerie seemed to have
overlooked.</p>

<p>"Oh yes, I recognized Monsieur le Comte," replied Valerie with
a<br>
 gracious bow to the artist. "I often saw you in the Rue du
Doyenne,<br>
 and I had the pleasure of being present at your wedding.--It
would be<br>
 difficult, my dear," said she to Lisbeth, "to forget your
adopted son<br>
 after once seeing him.--It is most kind of you, Monsieur
Stidmann,"<br>
 she went on, "to have accepted my invitation at such short
notice; but<br>
 necessity knows no law. I knew you to be the friend of both
these<br>
 gentlemen. Nothing is more dreary, more sulky, than a dinner
where all<br>
 the guests are strangers, so it was for their sake that I hailed
you<br>
 in--but you will come another time for mine, I hope?--Say that
you<br>
 will."</p>

<p>And for a few minutes she moved about the room with Stidmann,
wholly<br>
 occupied with him.</p>

<p>Crevel and Hulot were announced separately, and then a deputy
named<br>
 Beauvisage.</p>

<p>This individual, a provincial Crevel, one of the men created
to make<br>
 up the crowd in the world, voted under the banner of Giraud, a
State<br>
 Councillor, and Victorin Hulot. These two politicians were
trying to<br>
 form a nucleus of progressives in the loose array of the
Conservative<br>
 Party. Giraud himself occasionally spent the evening at
Madame<br>
 Marneffe's, and she flattered herself that she should also
capture<br>
 Victorin Hulot; but the puritanical lawyer had hitherto found
excuses<br>
 for refusing to accompany his father and father-in-law. It
seemed to<br>
 him criminal to be seen in the house of the woman who cost his
mother<br>
 so many tears. Victorin Hulot was to the puritans of political
life<br>
 what a pious woman is among bigots.</p>

<p>Beauvisage, formerly a stocking manufacturer at Arcis, was
anxious to<br>
 <i>pick up the Paris style</i>. This man, one of the outer
stones of the<br>
 Chamber, was forming himself under the auspices of this
delicious and<br>
 fascinating Madame Marneffe. Introduced here by Crevel, he
had<br>
 accepted him, at her instigation, as his model and master.
He<br>
 consulted him on every point, took the address of his tailor,
imitated<br>
 him, and tried to strike the same attitudes. In short, Crevel
was his<br>
 Great Man.</p>

<p>Valerie, surrounded by these bigwigs and the three artists,
and<br>
 supported by Lisbeth, struck Wenceslas as a really superior
woman, all<br>
 the more so because Claude Vignon spoke of her like a man in
love.</p>

<p>"She is Madame de Maintenon in Ninon's petticoats!" said the
veteran<br>
 critic. "You may please her in an evening if you have the wit;
but as<br>
 for making her love you--that would be a triumph to crown a
man's<br>
 ambition and fill up his life."</p>

<p>Valerie, while seeming cold and heedless of her former
neighbor,<br>
 piqued his vanity, quite unconsciously indeed, for she knew
nothing of<br>
 the Polish character. There is in the Slav a childish element,
as<br>
 there is in all these primitively wild nations which have
overflowed<br>
 into civilization rather than that they have become civilized.
The<br>
 race has spread like an inundation, and has covered a large
portion of<br>
 the globe. It inhabits deserts whose extent is so vast that it
expands<br>
 at its ease; there is no jostling there, as there is in Europe,
and<br>
 civilization is impossible without the constant friction of
minds and<br>
 interests. The Ukraine, Russia, the plains by the Danube, in
short,<br>
 the Slav nations, are a connecting link between Europe and
Asia,<br>
 between civilization and barbarism. Thus the Pole, the
wealthiest<br>
 member of the Slav family, has in his character all the
childishness<br>
 and inconsistency of a beardless race. He has courage, spirit,
and<br>
 strength; but, cursed with instability, that courage, strength,
and<br>
 energy have neither method nor guidance; for the Pole displays
a<br>
 variability resembling that of the winds which blow across that
vast<br>
 plain broken with swamps; and though he has the impetuosity of
the<br>
 snow squalls that wrench and sweep away buildings, like those
aerial<br>
 avalanches he is lost in the first pool and melts into water.
Man<br>
 always assimilates something from the surroundings in which he
lives.<br>
 Perpetually at strife with the Turk, the Pole has imbibed a
taste for<br>
 Oriental splendor; he often sacrifices what is needful for the
sake of<br>
 display. The men dress themselves out like women, yet the
climate has<br>
 given them the tough constitution of Arabs.</p>

<p>The Pole, sublime in suffering, has tired his oppressors' arms
by<br>
 sheer endurance of beating; and, in the nineteenth century,
has<br>
 reproduced the spectacle presented by the early Christians.
Infuse<br>
 only ten per cent of English cautiousness into the frank and
open<br>
 Polish nature, and the magnanimous white eagle would at this day
be<br>
 supreme wherever the two-headed eagle has sneaked in. A
little<br>
 Machiavelism would have hindered Poland from helping to save
Austria,<br>
 who has taken a share of it; from borrowing from Prussia, the
usurer<br>
 who had undermined it; and from breaking up as soon as a
division was<br>
 first made.</p>

<p>At the christening of Poland, no doubt, the Fairy
Carabosse,<br>
 overlooked by the genii who endowed that attractive people with
the<br>
 most brilliant gifts, came in to say:</p>

<p>"Keep all the gifts that my sisters have bestowed on you; but
you<br>
 shall never know what you wish for!"</p>

<p>If, in its heroic duel with Russia, Poland had won the day,
the Poles<br>
 would now be fighting among themselves, as they formerly fought
in<br>
 their Diets to hinder each other from being chosen King. When
that<br>
 nation, composed entirely of hot-headed dare-devils, has good
sense<br>
 enough to seek a Louis XI. among her own offspring, to accept
his<br>
 despotism and a dynasty, she will be saved.</p>

<p>What Poland has been politically, almost every Pole is in
private<br>
 life, especially under the stress of disaster. Thus
Wenceslas<br>
 Steinbock, after worshiping his wife for three years and knowing
that<br>
 he was a god to her, was so much nettled at finding himself
barely<br>
 noticed by Madame Marneffe, that he made it a point of honor
to<br>
 attract her attention. He compared Valerie with his wife and
gave her<br>
 the palm. Hortense was beautiful flesh, as Valerie had said
to<br>
 Lisbeth; but Madame Marneffe had spirit in her very shape, and
the<br>
 savor of vice.</p>

<p>Such devotion as Hortense's is a feeling which a husband takes
as his<br>
 due; the sense of the immense preciousness of such perfect love
soon<br>
 wears off, as a debtor, in the course of time, begins to fancy
that<br>
 the borrowed money is his own. This noble loyalty becomes the
daily<br>
 bread of the soul, and an infidelity is as tempting as a dainty.
The<br>
 woman who is scornful, and yet more the woman who is reputed<br>
 dangerous, excites curiosity, as spices add flavor to good
food.<br>
 Indeed, the disdain so cleverly acted by Valerie was a novelty
to<br>
 Wenceslas, after three years of too easy enjoyment. Hortense was
a<br>
 wife; Valerie a mistress.</p>

<p>Many men desire to have two editions of the same work, though
it is in<br>
 fact a proof of inferiority when a man cannot make his mistress
of his<br>
 wife. Variety in this particular is a sign of weakness.
Constancy will<br>
 always be the real genius of love, the evidence of immense
power--the<br>
 power that makes the poet! A man ought to find every woman in
his<br>
 wife, as the squalid poets of the seventeenth century made
their<br>
 Manons figure as Iris and Chloe.</p>

<p>"Well," said Lisbeth to the Pole, as she beheld him
fascinated, "what<br>
 do you think of Valerie?"</p>

<p>"She is too charming," replied Wenceslas.</p>

<p>"You would not listen to me," said Betty. "Oh! my little
Wenceslas, if<br>
 you and I had never parted, you would have been that siren's
lover;<br>
 you might have married her when she was a widow, and you would
have<br>
 had her forty thousand francs a year----"</p>

<p>"Really?"</p>

<p>"Certainly," replied Lisbeth. "Now, take care of yourself; I
warned<br>
 you of the danger; do not singe your wings in the candle!--Come,
give<br>
 me your arm, dinner is served."</p>

<p>No language could be so thoroughly demoralizing as this; for
if you<br>
 show a Pole a precipice, he is bound to leap it. As a nation
they have<br>
 the very spirit of cavalry; they fancy they can ride down
every<br>
 obstacle and come out victorious. The spur applied by Lisbeth
to<br>
 Steinbock's vanity was intensified by the appearance of the
dining-<br>
 room, bright with handsome silver plate; the dinner was served
with<br>
 every refinement and extravagance of Parisian luxury.</p>

<p>"I should have done better to take Celimene," thought he to
himself.</p>

<p>All through the dinner Hulot was charming; pleased to see his
son-in-<br>
 law at that table, and yet more happy in the prospect of a<br>
 reconciliation with Valerie, whose fidelity he proposed to
secure by<br>
 the promise of Coquet's head-clerkship. Stidmann responded to
the<br>
 Baron's amiability by shafts of Parisian banter and an artist's
high<br>
 spirits. Steinbock would not allow himself to be eclipsed by
his<br>
 friend; he too was witty, said amusing things, made his mark,
and was<br>
 pleased with himself; Madame Marneffe smiled at him several
times to<br>
 show that she quite understood him.</p>

<p>The good meal and heady wines completed the work; Wenceslas
was deep<br>
 in what must be called the slough of dissipation. Excited by
just a<br>
 glass too much, he stretched himself on a settee after dinner,
sunk in<br>
 physical and mental ecstasy, which Madame Marneffe wrought to
the<br>
 highest pitch by coming to sit down by him--airy, scented,
pretty<br>
 enough to damn an angel. She bent over Wenceslas and almost
touched<br>
 his ear as she whispered to him:</p>

<p>"We cannot talk over business matters this evening, unless you
will<br>
 remain till the last. Between us--you, Lisbeth, and me--we can
settle<br>
 everything to suit you."</p>

<p>"Ah, Madame, you are an angel!" replied Wenceslas, also in a
murmur.<br>
 "I was a pretty fool not to listen to Lisbeth--"</p>

<p>"What did she say?"</p>

<p>"She declared, in the Rue du Doyenne, that you loved me!"</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe looked at him, seemed covered with confusion,
and<br>
 hastily left her seat. A young and pretty woman never rouses the
hope<br>
 of immediate success with impunity. This retreat, the impulse of
a<br>
 virtuous woman who is crushing a passion in the depths of her
heart,<br>
 was a thousand times more effective than the most reckless
avowal.<br>
 Desire was so thoroughly aroused in Wenceslas that he doubled
his<br>
 attentions to Valerie. A woman seen by all is a woman wished
for.<br>
 Hence the terrible power of actresses. Madame Marneffe, knowing
that<br>
 she was watched, behaved like an admired actress. She was
quite<br>
 charming, and her success was immense.</p>

<p>"I no longer wonder at my father-in-law's follies," said
Steinbock to<br>
 Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"If you say such things, Wenceslas, I shall to my dying day
repent of<br>
 having got you the loan of these ten thousand francs. Are you,
like<br>
 all these men," and she indicated the guests, "madly in love
with that<br>
 creature? Remember, you would be your father-in-law's rival. And
think<br>
 of the misery you would bring on Hortense."</p>

<p>"That is true," said Wenceslas. "Hortense is an angel; I
should be a<br>
 wretch."</p>

<p>"And one is enough in the family!" said Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"Artists ought never to marry!" exclaimed Steinbock.</p>

<p>"Ah! that is what I always told you in the Rue du Doyenne.
Your<br>
 groups, your statues, your great works, ought to be your
children."</p>

<p>"What are you talking about?" Valerie asked, joining
Lisbeth.--"Give<br>
 us tea, Cousin."</p>

<p>Steinbock, with Polish vainglory, wanted to appear familiar
with this<br>
 drawing-room fairy. After defying Stidmann, Vignon, and Crevel
with a<br>
 look, he took Valerie's hand and forced her to sit down by him
on the<br>
 settee.</p>

<p>"You are rather too lordly, Count Steinbock," said she,
resisting a<br>
 little. But she laughed as she dropped on to the seat, not
without<br>
 arranging the rosebud pinned into her bodice.</p>

<p>"Alas! if I were really lordly," said he, "I should not be
here to<br>
 borrow money."</p>

<p>"Poor boy! I remember how you worked all night in the Rue du
Doyenne.<br>
 You really were rather a spooney; you married as a starving
man<br>
 snatches a loaf. You knew nothing of Paris, and you see where
you are<br>
 landed. But you turned a deaf ear to Lisbeth's devotion, as you
did to<br>
 the love of a woman who knows her Paris by heart."</p>

<p>"Say no more!" cried Steinbock; "I am done for!"</p>

<p>"You shall have your ten thousand francs, my dear Wenceslas;
but on<br>
 one condition," she went on, playing with his handsome
curls.</p>

<p>"What is that?"</p>

<p>"I will take no interest----"</p>

<p>"Madame!"</p>

<p>"Oh, you need not be indignant; you shall make it good by
giving me a<br>
 bronze group. You began the story of Samson; finish it.--Do a
Delilah<br>
 cutting off the Jewish Hercules' hair. And you, who, if you
will<br>
 listen to me, will be a great artist, must enter into the
subject.<br>
 What you have to show is the power of woman. Samson is a
secondary<br>
 consideration. He is the corpse of dead strength. It is
Delilah--<br>
 passion--that ruins everything. How far more beautiful is
that<br>
 <i>replica</i>--That is what you call it, I think--" She
skilfully<br>
 interpolated, as Claude Vignon and Stidmann came up to them on
hearing<br>
 her talk of sculpture--"how far more beautiful than the Greek
myth is<br>
 that <i>replica</i> of Hercules at Omphale's feet.--Did Greece
copy Judaea,<br>
 or did Judaea borrow the symbolism from Greece?"</p>

<p>"There, madame, you raise an important question--that of the
date of<br>
 the various writings in the Bible. The great and immortal
Spinoza--<br>
 most foolishly ranked as an atheist, whereas he gave
mathematical<br>
 proof of the existence of God--asserts that the Book of Genesis
and<br>
 all the political history of the Bible are of the time of Moses,
and<br>
 he demonstrates the interpolated passages by philological
evidence.<br>
 And he was thrice stabbed as he went into the synagogue."</p>

<p>"I had no idea I was so learned," said Valerie, annoyed at
this<br>
 interruption to her <i>tete-a-tete.</i></p>

<p>"Women know everything by instinct," replied Claude
Vignon.</p>

<p>"Well, then, you promise me?" she said to Steinbock, taking
his hand<br>
 with the timidity of a girl in love.</p>

<p>"You are indeed a happy man, my dear fellow," cried Stidmann,
"if<br>
 madame asks a favor of you!"</p>

<p>"What is it?" asked Claude Vignon.</p>

<p>"A small bronze group," replied Steinbock, "Delilah cutting
off<br>
 Samson's hair."</p>

<p>"It is difficult," remarked Vignon. "A bed----"</p>

<p>"On the contrary, it is exceedingly easy," replied Valerie,
smiling.</p>

<p>"Ah ha! teach us sculpture!" said Stidmann.</p>

<p>"You should take madame for your subject," replied Vignon,
with a keen<br>
 glance at Valerie.</p>

<p>"Well," she went on, "this is my notion of the composition.
Samson on<br>
 waking finds he has no hair, like many a dandy with a false
top-knot.<br>
 The hero is sitting on the bed, so you need only show the foot
of it,<br>
 covered with hangings and drapery. There he is, like Marius
among the<br>
 ruins of Carthage, his arms folded, his head shaven--Napoleon
at<br>
 Saint-Helena--what you will! Delilah is on her knees, a good
deal like<br>
 Canova's Magdalen. When a hussy has ruined her man, she adores
him. As<br>
 I see it, the Jewess was afraid of Samson in his strength and
terrors,<br>
 but she must have loved him when she saw him a child again. So
Delilah<br>
 is bewailing her sin, she would like to give her lover his hair
again.<br>
 She hardly dares to look at him; but she does look, with a
smile, for<br>
 she reads forgiveness in Samson's weakness. Such a group as
this, and<br>
 one of the ferocious Judith, would epitomize woman. Virtue cuts
off<br>
 your head; vice only cuts off your hair. Take care of your
wigs,<br>
 gentlemen!"</p>

<p>And she left the artists quite overpowered, to sing her
praises in<br>
 concert with the critic.</p>

<p>"It is impossible to be more bewitching!" cried Stidmann.</p>

<p>"Oh! she is the most intelligent and desirable woman I have
ever met,"<br>
 said Claude Vignon. "Such a combination of beauty and cleverness
is so<br>
 rare."</p>

<p>"And if you who had the honor of being intimate with Camille
Maupin<br>
 can pronounce such a verdict," replied Stidmann, "what are we
to<br>
 think?"</p>

<p>"If you will make your Delilah a portrait of Valerie, my dear
Count,"<br>
 said Crevel, who had risen for a moment from the card-table, and
who<br>
 had heard what had been said, "I will give you a thousand crowns
for<br>
 an example--yes, by the Powers! I will shell out to the tune of
a<br>
 thousand crowns!"</p>

<p>"Shell out! What does that mean?" asked Beauvisage of Claude
Vignon.</p>

<p>"Madame must do me the honor to sit for it then," said
Steinbock to<br>
 Crevel. "Ask her--"</p>

<p>At this moment Valerie herself brought Steinbock a cup of tea.
This<br>
 was more than a compliment, it was a favor. There is a
complete<br>
 language in the manner in which a woman does this little
civility; but<br>
 women are fully aware of the fact, and it is a curious thing to
study<br>
 their movements, their manner, their look, tone, and accent when
they<br>
 perform this apparently simple act of politeness.--From the
question,<br>
 "Do you take tea?"--"Will you have some tea?"--"A cup of tea?"
coldly<br>
 asked, and followed by instructions to the nymph of the urn to
bring<br>
 it, to the eloquent poem of the odalisque coming from the
tea-table,<br>
 cup in hand, towards the pasha of her heart, presenting it<br>
 submissively, offering it in an insinuating voice, with a look
full of<br>
 intoxicating promises, a physiologist could deduce the whole
scale of<br>
 feminine emotion, from aversion or indifference to Phaedra's<br>
 declaration to Hippolytus. Women can make it, at will,
contemptuous to<br>
 the verge of insult, or humble to the expression of Oriental<br>
 servility.</p>

<p><br>
 And Valerie was more than woman; she was the serpent made woman;
she<br>
 crowned her diabolical work by going up to Steinbock, a cup of
tea in<br>
 her hand.</p>

<p>"I will drink as many cups of tea as you will give me," said
the<br>
 artist, murmuring in her ear as he rose, and touching her
fingers with<br>
 his, "to have them given to me thus!"</p>

<p>"What were you saying about sitting?" said she, without
betraying that<br>
 this declaration, so frantically desired, had gone straight to
her<br>
 heart.</p>

<p>"Old Crevel promises me a thousand crowns for a copy of your
group."</p>

<p>"He! a thousand crowns for a bronze group?"</p>

<p>"Yes--if you will sit for Delilah," said Steinbock.</p>

<p>"He will not be there to see, I hope!" replied she. "The group
would<br>
 be worth more than all his fortune, for Delilah's costume is
rather<br>
 un-dressy."</p>

<p>Just as Crevel loved to strike an attitude, every woman has
a<br>
 victorious gesture, a studied movement, which she knows must
win<br>
 admiration. You may see in a drawing-room how one spends all her
time<br>
 looking down at her tucker or pulling up the shoulder-piece of
her<br>
 gown, how another makes play with the brightness of her eyes
by<br>
 glancing up at the cornice. Madame Marneffe's triumph, however,
was<br>
 not face to face like that of other women. She turned sharply
round to<br>
 return to Lisbeth at the tea-table. This ballet-dancer's
pirouette,<br>
 whisking her skirts, by which she had overthrown Hulot, now
fascinated<br>
 Steinbock.</p>

<p>"Your vengeance is secure," said Valerie to Lisbeth in a
whisper.<br>
 "Hortense will cry out all her tears, and curse the day when
she<br>
 robbed you of Wenceslas."</p>

<p>"Till I am Madame la Marechale I shall not think myself
successful,"<br>
 replied the cousin; "but they are all beginning to wish for
it.--This<br>
 morning I went to Victorin's--I forgot to tell you.--The young
Hulots<br>
 have bought up their father's notes of hand given to Vauvinet,
and<br>
 to-morrow they will endorse a bill for seventy-two thousand
francs at<br>
 five per cent, payable in three years, and secured by a mortgage
on<br>
 their house. So the young people are in straits for three years;
they<br>
 can raise no more money on that property. Victorin is
dreadfully<br>
 distressed; he understands his father. And Crevel is capable
of<br>
 refusing to see them; he will be so angry at this piece of
self-<br>
 sacrifice."</p>

<p>"The Baron cannot have a sou now," said Valerie, and she
smiled at<br>
 Hulot.</p>

<p>"I don't see where he can get it. But he will draw his salary
again in<br>
 September."</p>

<p>"And he has his policy of insurance; he has renewed it. Come,
it is<br>
 high time he should get Marneffe promoted. I will drive it home
this<br>
 evening."</p>

<p>"My dear cousin," said Lisbeth to Wenceslas, "go home, I beg.
You are<br>
 quite ridiculous. Your eyes are fixed on Valerie in a way that
is<br>
 enough to compromise her, and her husband is insanely jealous.
Do not<br>
 tread in your father-in-law's footsteps. Go home; I am sure
Hortense<br>
 is sitting up for you."</p>

<p>"Madame Marneffe told me to stay till the last to settle my
little<br>
 business with you and her," replied Wenceslas.</p>

<p>"No, no," said Lisbeth; "I will bring you the ten thousand
francs, for<br>
 her husband has his eye on you. It would be rash to remain.
To-morrow<br>
 at eleven o'clock bring your note of hand; at that hour that
mandarin<br>
 Marneffe is at his office, Valerie is free.--Have you really
asked her<br>
 to sit for your group?--Come up to my rooms first.--Ah! I was
sure of<br>
 it," she added, as she caught the look which Steinbock flashed
at<br>
 Valerie, "I knew you were a profligate in the bud! Well, Valerie
is<br>
 lovely--but try not to bring trouble on Hortense."</p>

<p>Nothing annoys a married man so much as finding his wife
perpetually<br>
 interposing between himself and his wishes, however
transient.</p>

<p>Wenceslas got home at about one in the morning; Hortense had
expected<br>
 him ever since half-past nine. From half-past nine till ten she
had<br>
 listened to the passing carriages, telling herself that never
before<br>
 had her husband come in so late from dining with Florent and
Chanor.<br>
 She sat sewing by the child's cot, for she had begun to save
a<br>
 needlewoman's pay for the day by doing the mending
herself.--From ten<br>
 till half-past, a suspicion crossed her mind; she sat
wondering:</p>

<p>"Is he really gone to dinner, as he told me, with Chanor and
Florent?<br>
 He put on his best cravat and his handsomest pin when he
dressed. He<br>
 took as long over his toilet as a woman when she wants to make
the<br>
 best of herself.--I am crazy! He loves me!--And here he is!"</p>

<p>But instead of stopping, the cab she heard went past.</p>

<p>From eleven till midnight Hortense was a victim to terrible
alarms;<br>
 the quarter where they lived was now deserted.</p>

<p>"If he has set out on foot, some accident may have happened,"
thought<br>
 she. "A man may be killed by tumbling over a curbstone or
failing to<br>
 see a gap. Artists are so heedless! Or if he should have been
stopped<br>
 by robbers!--It is the first time he has ever left me alone here
for<br>
 six hours and a half!--But why should I worry myself? He cares
for no<br>
 one but me."</p>

<p>Men ought to be faithful to the wives who love them, were it
only on<br>
 account of the perpetual miracles wrought by true love in the
sublime<br>
 regions of the spiritual world. The woman who loves is, in
relation to<br>
 the man she loves, in the position of a somnambulist to whom
the<br>
 magnetizer should give the painful power, when she ceases to be
the<br>
 mirror of the world, of being conscious as a woman of what she
has<br>
 seen as a somnambulist. Passion raises the nervous tension of a
woman<br>
 to the ecstatic pitch at which presentiment is as acute as the
insight<br>
 of a clairvoyant. A wife knows she is betrayed; she will not
let<br>
 herself say so, she doubts still--she loves so much! She gives
the lie<br>
 to the outcry of her own Pythian power. This paroxysm of love
deserves<br>
 a special form of worship.</p>

<p>In noble souls, admiration of this divine phenomenon will
always be a<br>
 safeguard to protect them from infidelity. How should a man
not<br>
 worship a beautiful and intellectual creature whose soul can
soar to<br>
 such manifestations?</p>

<p>By one in the morning Hortense was in a state of such intense
anguish,<br>
 that she flew to the door as she recognized her husband's ring
at the<br>
 bell, and clasped him in her arms like a mother.</p>

<p>"At last--here you are!" cried she, finding her voice again.
"My<br>
 dearest, henceforth where you go I go, for I cannot again endure
the<br>
 torture of such waiting.--I pictured you stumbling over a
curbstone,<br>
 with a fractured skull! Killed by thieves!--No, a second time I
know I<br>
 should go mad.--Have you enjoyed yourself so much?--And without
me!--<br>
 Bad boy!"</p>

<p>"What can I say, my darling? There was Bixiou, who drew
fresh<br>
 caricatures for us; Leon de Lora, as witty as ever; Claude
Vignon, to<br>
 whom I owe the only consolatory article that has come out about
the<br>
 Montcornet statue. There were--"</p>

<p>"Were there no ladies?" Hortense eagerly inquired.</p>

<p>"Worthy Madame Florent--"</p>

<p>"You said the Rocher de Cancale.--Were you at the
Florents'?"</p>

<p>"Yes, at their house; I made a mistake."</p>

<p>"You did not take a coach to come home?"</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"And you have walked from the Rue des Tournelles?"</p>

<p>"Stidmann and Bixiou came back with me along the boulevards as
far as<br>
 the Madeleine, talking all the way."</p>

<p>"It is dry then on the boulevards and the Place de la Concorde
and the<br>
 Rue de Bourgogne? You are not muddy at all!" said Hortense,
looking at<br>
 her husband's patent leather boots.</p>

<p>It had been raining, but between the Rue Vanneau and the Rue
Saint-<br>
 Dominique Wenceslas had not got his boots soiled.</p>

<p>"Here--here are five thousand francs Chanor has been so
generous as to<br>
 lend me," said Wenceslas, to cut short this lawyer-like
examination.</p>

<p>He had made a division of the ten thousand-franc notes, half
for<br>
 Hortense and half for himself, for he had five thousand francs'
worth<br>
 of debts of which Hortense knew nothing. He owed money to his
foreman<br>
 and his workmen.</p>

<p>"Now your anxieties are relieved," said he, kissing his wife.
"I am<br>
 going to work to-morrow morning. So I am going to bed this
minute to<br>
 get up early, by your leave, my pet."</p>

<p>The suspicion that had dawned in Hortense's mind vanished; she
was<br>
 miles away from the truth. Madame Marneffe! She had never
thought of<br>
 her. Her fear for her Wenceslas was that he should fall in with
street<br>
 prostitutes. The names of Bixiou and Leon de Lora, two artists
noted<br>
 for their wild dissipations, had alarmed her.</p>

<p>Next morning she saw Wenceslas go out at nine o'clock, and was
quite<br>
 reassured.</p>

<p>"Now he is at work again," said she to herself, as she
proceeded to<br>
 dress her boy. "I see he is quite in the vein! Well, well, if
we<br>
 cannot have the glory of Michael Angelo, we may have that of
Benvenuto<br>
 Cellini!"</p>

<p>Lulled by her own hopes, Hortense believed in a happy future;
and she<br>
 was chattering to her son of twenty months in the language
of<br>
 onomatopoeia that amuses babes when, at about eleven o'clock,
the<br>
 cook, who had not seen Wenceslas go out, showed in Stidmann.</p>

<p>"I beg pardon, madame," said he. "Is Wenceslas gone out
already?"</p>

<p>"He is at the studio."</p>

<p>"I came to talk over the work with him."</p>

<p>"I will send for him," said Hortense, offering Stidmann a
chair.</p>

<p>Thanking Heaven for this piece of luck, Hortense was glad to
detain<br>
 Stidmann to ask some questions about the evening before.
Stidmann<br>
 bowed in acknowledgment of her kindness. The Countess Steinbock
rang;<br>
 the cook appeared, and was desired to go at once and fetch her
master<br>
 from the studio.</p>

<p>"You had an amusing dinner last night?" said Hortense.
"Wenceslas did<br>
 not come in till past one in the morning."</p>

<p>"Amusing? not exactly," replied the artist, who had intended
to<br>
 fascinate Madame Marneffe. "Society is not very amusing unless
one is<br>
 interested in it. That little Madame Marneffe is clever, but a
great<br>
 flirt."</p>

<p>"And what did Wenceslas think of her?" asked poor Hortense,
trying to<br>
 keep calm. "He said nothing about her to me."</p>

<p>"I will only say one thing," said Stidmann, "and that is, that
I think<br>
 her a very dangerous woman."</p>

<p>Hortense turned as pale as a woman after childbirth.</p>

<p>"So--it was at--at Madame Marneffe's that you dined--and
not--not with<br>
 Chanor?" said she, "yesterday--and Wenceslas--and he----"</p>

<p>Stidmann, without knowing what mischief he had done, saw that
he had<br>
 blundered.</p>

<p>The Countess did not finish her sentence; she simply fainted
away. The<br>
 artist rang, and the maid came in. When Louise tried to get
her<br>
 mistress into her bedroom, a serious nervous attack came on,
with<br>
 violent hysterics. Stidmann, like any man who by an
involuntary<br>
 indiscretion has overthrown the structure built on a husband's
lie to<br>
 his wife, could not conceive that his words should produce such
an<br>
 effect; he supposed that the Countess was in such delicate
health that<br>
 the slightest contradiction was mischievous.</p>

<p>The cook presently returned to say, unfortunately in loud
tones, that<br>
 her master was not in the studio. In the midst of her
anguish,<br>
 Hortense heard, and the hysterical fit came on again.</p>

<p>"Go and fetch madame's mother," said Louise to the cook.
"Quick--run!"</p>

<p>"If I knew where to find Steinbock, I would go and fetch
him!"<br>
 exclaimed Stidmann in despair.</p>

<p>"He is with that woman!" cried the unhappy wife. "He was not
dressed<br>
 to go to his work!"</p>

<p>Stidmann hurried off to Madame Marneffe's, struck by the truth
of this<br>
 conclusion, due to the second-sight of passion.</p>

<p>At that moment Valerie was posed as Delilah. Stidmann, too
sharp to<br>
 ask for Madame Marneffe, walked straight in past the lodge, and
ran<br>
 quickly up to the second floor, arguing thus: "If I ask for
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, she will be out. If I inquire point-blank for
Steinbock, I<br>
 shall be laughed at to my face.--Take the bull by the
horns!"</p>

<p>Reine appeared in answer to his ring.</p>

<p>"Tell Monsieur le Comte Steinbock to come at once, his wife
is<br>
 dying--"</p>

<p>Reine, quite a match for Stidmann, looked at him with blank
surprise.</p>

<p>"But, sir--I don't know--did you suppose----"</p>

<p>"I tell you that my friend Monsieur Steinbock is here; his
wife is<br>
 very ill. It is quite serious enough for you to disturb your<br>
 mistress." And Stidmann turned on his heel.</p>

<p>"He is there, sure enough!" said he to himself.</p>

<p>And in point of fact, after waiting a few minutes in the Rue
Vanneau,<br>
 he saw Wenceslas come out, and beckoned to him to come quickly.
After<br>
 telling him of the tragedy enacted in the Rue
Saint-Dominique,<br>
 Stidmann scolded Steinbock for not having warned him to keep
the<br>
 secret of yesterday's dinner.</p>

<p>"I am done for," said Wenceslas, "but you are forgiven. I had
totally<br>
 forgotten that you were to call this morning, and I blundered in
not<br>
 telling you that we were to have dined with Florent.--What can I
say?<br>
 That Valerie has turned my head; but, my dear fellow, for her
glory is<br>
 well lost, misfortune well won! She really is!--Good
Heavens!--But I<br>
 am in a dreadful fix. Advise me. What can I say? How can I
excuse<br>
 myself?"</p>

<p>"I! advise you! I don't know," replied Stidmann. "But your
wife loves<br>
 you, I imagine? Well, then, she will believe anything. Tell her
that<br>
 you were on your way to me when I was on my way to you; that, at
any<br>
 rate, will set this morning's business right. Good-bye."</p>

<p>Lisbeth, called down by Reine, ran after Wenceslas and caught
him up<br>
 at the corner of the Rue Hillerin-Bertin; she was afraid of his
Polish<br>
 artlessness. Not wishing to be involved in the matter, she said
a few<br>
 words to Wenceslas, who in his joy hugged her then and there.
She had<br>
 no doubt pushed out a plank to enable the artist to cross this
awkward<br>
 place in his conjugal affairs.</p>

<p>At the sight of her mother, who had flown to her aid, Hortense
burst<br>
 into floods of tears. This happily changed the character of
the<br>
 hysterical attack.</p>

<p>"Treachery, dear mamma!" cried she. "Wenceslas, after giving
me his<br>
 word of honor that he would not go near Madame Marneffe, dined
with<br>
 her last night, and did not come in till a quarter-past one in
the<br>
 morning.--If you only knew! The day before we had had a
discussion,<br>
 not a quarrel, and I had appealed to him so touchingly. I told
him I<br>
 was jealous, that I should die if he were unfaithful; that I
was<br>
 easily suspicious, but that he ought to have some consideration
for my<br>
 weaknesses, as they came of my love for him; that I had my
father's<br>
 blood in my veins as well as yours; that at the first moment of
such<br>
 discovery I should be mad, and capable of mad deeds--of
avenging<br>
 myself--of dishonoring us all, him, his child, and myself; that
I<br>
 might even kill him first and myself after--and so on.</p>

<p><br>
 "And yet he went there; he is there!--That woman is bent on
breaking<br>
 all our hearts! Only yesterday my brother and Celestine pledged
their<br>
 all to pay off seventy thousand francs on notes of hand signed
for<br>
 that good-for-nothing creature.--Yes, mamma, my father would
have been<br>
 arrested and put into prison. Cannot that dreadful woman be
content<br>
 with having my father, and with all your tears? Why take my
Wenceslas?<br>
 --I will go to see her and stab her!"</p>

<p>Madame Hulot, struck to the heart by the dreadful secrets
Hortense was<br>
 unwittingly letting out, controlled her grief by one of the
heroic<br>
 efforts which a magnanimous mother can make, and drew her
daughter's<br>
 head on to her bosom to cover it with kisses.</p>

<p>"Wait for Wenceslas, my child; all will be explained. The evil
cannot<br>
 be so great as you picture it!--I, too, have been deceived, my
dear<br>
 Hortense; you think me handsome, I have lived blameless; and yet
I<br>
 have been utterly forsaken for three-and-twenty years--for a
Jenny<br>
 Cadine, a Josepha, a Madame Marneffe!-- Did you know that?"</p>

<p>"You, mamma, you! You have endured this for twenty----"</p>

<p>She broke off, staggered by her own thoughts.</p>

<p>"Do as I have done, my child," said her mother. "Be gentle and
kind,<br>
 and your conscience will be at peace. On his death-bed a man may
say,<br>
 'My wife has never cost me a pang!' And God, who hears that
dying<br>
 breath, credits it to us. If I had abandoned myself to fury like
you,<br>
 what would have happened? Your father would have been
embittered,<br>
 perhaps he would have left me altogether, and he would not have
been<br>
 withheld by any fear of paining me. Our ruin, utter as it now
is,<br>
 would have been complete ten years sooner, and we should have
shown<br>
 the world the spectacle of a husband and wife living quite
apart--a<br>
 scandal of the most horrible, heart-breaking kind, for it is
the<br>
 destruction of the family. Neither your brother nor you could
have<br>
 married.</p>

<p>"I sacrificed myself, and that so bravely, that, till this
last<br>
 connection of your father's, the world has believed me happy.
My<br>
 serviceable and indeed courageous falsehood has, till now,
screened<br>
 Hector; he is still respected; but this old man's passion is
taking<br>
 him too far, that I see. His own folly, I fear, will break
through the<br>
 veil I have kept between the world and our home. However, I have
held<br>
 that curtain steady for twenty-three years, and have wept behind
it--<br>
 motherless, I, without a friend to trust, with no help but in
religion<br>
 --I have for twenty-three years secured the family
honor----"</p>

<p>Hortense listened with a fixed gaze. The calm tone of
resignation and<br>
 of such crowning sorrow soothed the smart of her first wound;
the<br>
 tears rose again and flowed in torrents. In a frenzy of
filial<br>
 affection, overcome by her mother's noble heroism, she fell on
her<br>
 knees before Adeline, took up the hem of her dress and kissed
it, as<br>
 pious Catholics kiss the holy relics of a martyr.</p>

<p>"Nay, get up, Hortense," said the Baroness. "Such homage from
my<br>
 daughter wipes out many sad memories. Come to my heart, and weep
for<br>
 no sorrows but your own. It is the despair of my dear little
girl,<br>
 whose joy was my only joy, that broke the solemn seal which
nothing<br>
 ought to have removed from my lips. Indeed, I meant to have
taken my<br>
 woes to the tomb, as a shroud the more. It was to soothe your
anguish<br>
 that I spoke.--God will forgive me!</p>

<p>"Oh! if my life were to be your life, what would I not do?
Men, the<br>
 world, Fate, Nature, God Himself, I believe, make us pay for
love with<br>
 the most cruel grief. I must pay for ten years of happiness
and<br>
 twenty-four years of despair, of ceaseless sorrow, of
bitterness--"</p>

<p>"But you had ten years, dear mamma, and I have had but three!"
said<br>
 the self-absorbed girl.</p>

<p>"Nothing is lost yet," said Adeline. "Only wait till Wenceslas
comes."</p>

<p>"Mother," said she, "he lied, he deceived me. He said, 'I will
not<br>
 go,' and he went. And that over his child's cradle."</p>

<p>"For pleasure, my child, men will commit the most cowardly,
the most<br>
 infamous actions--even crimes; it lies in their nature, it would
seem.<br>
 We wives are set apart for sacrifice. I believed my troubles
were<br>
 ended, and they are beginning again, for I never thought to
suffer<br>
 doubly by suffering with my child. Courage--and silence!--My
Hortense,<br>
 swear that you will never discuss your griefs with anybody but
me,<br>
 never let them be suspected by any third person. Oh! be as proud
as<br>
 your mother has been."</p>

<p>Hortense started; she had heard her husband's step.</p>

<p>"So it would seem," said Wenceslas, as he came in, "that
Stidmann has<br>
 been here while I went to see him."</p>

<p>"Indeed!" said Hortense, with the angry irony of an offended
woman who<br>
 uses words to stab.</p>

<p>"Certainly," said Wenceslas, affecting surprise. "We have just
met."</p>

<p>"And yesterday?"</p>

<p>"Well, yesterday I deceived you, my darling love; and your
mother<br>
 shall judge between us."</p>

<p>This candor unlocked his wife's heart. All really lofty women
like the<br>
 truth better than lies. They cannot bear to see their idol
smirched;<br>
 they want to be proud of the despotism they bow to.</p>

<p>There is a strain of this feeling in the devotion of the
Russians to<br>
 their Czar.</p>

<p>"Now, listen, dear mother," Wenceslas went on. "I so truly
love my<br>
 sweet and kind Hortense, that I concealed from her the extent of
our<br>
 poverty. What could I do? She was still nursing the boy, and
such<br>
 troubles would have done her harm; you know what the risk is for
a<br>
 woman. Her beauty, youth, and health are imperiled. Did I do
wrong?--<br>
 She believes that we owe five thousand francs; but I owe five
thousand<br>
 more. The day before yesterday we were in the depths! No one on
earth<br>
 will lend to us artists. Our talents are not less untrustworthy
than<br>
 our whims. I knocked in vain at every door. Lisbeth, indeed,
offered<br>
 us her savings."</p>

<p>"Poor soul!" said Hortense.</p>

<p>"Poor soul!" said the Baroness.</p>

<p>"But what are Lisbeth's two thousand francs? Everything to
her,<br>
 nothing to us.--Then, as you know, Hortense, she spoke to us of
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, who, as she owes so much to the Baron, out of a sense
of<br>
 honor, will take no interest. Hortense wanted to send her
diamonds to<br>
 the Mont-de-Piete; they would have brought in a few thousand
francs,<br>
 but we needed ten thousand. Those ten thousand francs were to be
had<br>
 free of interest for a year!--I said to myself, 'Hortense will
be none<br>
 the wiser; I will go and get them.'</p>

<p>"Then the woman asked me to dinner through my father-in-law,
giving me<br>
 to understand that Lisbeth had spoken of the matter, and I
should have<br>
 the money. Between Hortense's despair on one hand, and the
dinner on<br>
 the other, I could not hesitate.--That is all.</p>

<p>"What! could Hortense, at four-and-twenty, lovely, pure, and
virtuous,<br>
 and all my pride and glory, imagine that, when I have never left
her<br>
 since we married, I could now prefer--what?--a tawny, painted,
ruddled<br>
 creature?" said he, using the vulgar exaggeration of the studio
to<br>
 convince his wife by the vehemence that women like.</p>

<p>"Oh! if only your father had ever spoken so----!" cried the
Baroness.</p>

<p>Hortense threw her arms round her husband's neck.</p>

<p>"Yes, that is what I should have done," said her mother.
"Wenceslas,<br>
 my dear fellow, your wife was near dying of it," she went on
very<br>
 seriously. "You see how well she loves you. And, alas--she is
yours!"</p>

<p>She sighed deeply.</p>

<p>"He may make a martyr of her, or a happy woman," thought she
to<br>
 herself, as every mother thinks when she sees her daughter
married.--<br>
 "It seems to me," she said aloud, "that I am miserable enough to
hope<br>
 to see my children happy."</p>

<p>"Be quite easy, dear mamma," said Wenceslas, only too glad to
see this<br>
 critical moment end happily. "In two months I shall have repaid
that<br>
 dreadful woman. How could I help it," he went on, repeating
this<br>
 essentially Polish excuse with a Pole's grace; "there are times
when a<br>
 man would borrow of the Devil.--And, after all, the money
belongs to<br>
 the family. When once she had invited me, should I have got the
money<br>
 at all if I had responded to her civility with a rude
refusal?"</p>

<p>"Oh, mamma, what mischief papa is bringing on us!" cried
Hortense.</p>

<p>The Baroness laid her finger on her daughter's lips, aggrieved
by this<br>
 complaint, the first blame she had ever uttered of a father
so<br>
 heroically screened by her mother's magnanimous silence.</p>

<p>"Now, good-bye, my children," said Madame Hulot. "The storm is
over.<br>
 But do not quarrel any more."</p>

<p>When Wenceslas and his wife returned to their room after
letting out<br>
 the Baroness, Hortense said to her husband:</p>

<p>"Tell me all about last evening."</p>

<p>And she watched his face all through the narrative,
interrupting him<br>
 by the questions that crowd on a wife's mind in such
circumstances.<br>
 The story made Hortense reflect; she had a glimpse of the
infernal<br>
 dissipation which an artist must find in such vicious
company.</p>

<p>"Be honest, my Wenceslas; Stidmann was there, Claude
Vignon,<br>
 Vernisset.--Who else? In short, it was good fun?"</p>

<p>"I, I was thinking of nothing but our ten thousand francs, and
I was<br>
 saying to myself, 'My Hortense will be freed from anxiety.'
"</p>

<p>This catechism bored the Livonian excessively; he seized a
gayer<br>
 moment to say:</p>

<p>"And you, my dearest, what would you have done if your artist
had<br>
 proved guilty?"</p>

<p>"I," said she, with an air of prompt decision, "I should have
taken up<br>
 Stidmann--not that I love him, of course!"</p>

<p>"Hortense!" cried Steinbock, starting to his feet with a
sudden and<br>
 theatrical emphasis. "You would not have had the chance--I would
have<br>
 killed you!"</p>

<p>Hortense threw herself into his arms, clasping him closely
enough to<br>
 stifle him, and covered him with kisses, saying:</p>

<p>"Ah, you do love me! I fear nothing!--But no more Marneffe.
Never go<br>
 plunging into such horrible bogs."</p>

<p>"I swear to you, my dear Hortense, that I will go there no
more,<br>
 excepting to redeem my note of hand."</p>

<p>She pouted at this, but only as a loving woman sulks to get
something<br>
 for it. Wenceslas, tired out with such a morning's work, went
off to<br>
 his studio to make a clay sketch of the <i>Samson and
Delilah</i>, for<br>
 which he had the drawings in his pocket.</p>

<p>Hortense, penitent for her little temper, and fancying that
her<br>
 husband was annoyed with her, went to the studio just as the
sculptor<br>
 had finished handling the clay with the impetuosity that spurs
an<br>
 artist when the mood is on him. On seeing his wife, Wenceslas
hastily<br>
 threw the wet wrapper over the group, and putting both arms
round her,<br>
 he said:</p>

<p>"We were not really angry, were we, my pretty puss?"</p>

<p>Hortense had caught sight of the group, had seen the linen
thrown over<br>
 it, and had said nothing; but as she was leaving, she took off
the<br>
 rag, looked at the model, and asked:</p>

<p>"What is that?"</p>

<p>"A group for which I had just had an idea."</p>

<p>"And why did you hide it?"</p>

<p>"I did not mean you to see it till it was finished."</p>

<p>"The woman is very pretty," said Hortense.</p>

<p>And a thousand suspicions cropped up in her mind, as, in
India, tall,<br>
 rank plants spring up in a night-time.</p>

<p>By the end of three weeks, Madame Marneffe was intensely
irritated by<br>
 Hortense. Women of that stamp have a pride of their own; they
insist<br>
 that men shall kiss the devil's hoof; they have no forgiveness
for the<br>
 virtue that does not quail before their dominion, or that even
holds<br>
 its own against them. Now, in all that time Wenceslas had not
paid one<br>
 visit in the Rue Vanneau, not even that which politeness
required to a<br>
 woman who had sat for Delilah.</p>

<p>Whenever Lisbeth called on the Steinbocks, there had been
nobody at<br>
 home. Monsieur and madame lived in the studio. Lisbeth,
following the<br>
 turtle doves to their nest at le Gros-Caillou, found Wenceslas
hard at<br>
 work, and was informed by the cook that madame never left
monsieur's<br>
 side. Wenceslas was a slave to the autocracy of love. So now
Valerie,<br>
 on her own account, took part with Lisbeth in her hatred of
Hortense.</p>

<p>Women cling to a lover that another woman is fighting for,
just as<br>
 much as men do to women round whom many coxcombs are buzzing.
Thus any<br>
 reflections <i>a propos</i> to Madame Marneffe are equally
applicable to<br>
 any lady-killing rake; he is, in fact, a sort of male
courtesan.<br>
 Valerie's last fancy was a madness; above all, she was bent on
getting<br>
 her group; she was even thinking of going one morning to the
studio to<br>
 see Wenceslas, when a serious incident arose of the kind which,
to a<br>
 woman of that class, may be called the spoil of war.</p>

<p>This is how Valerie announced this wholly personal event.</p>

<p>She was breakfasting with Lisbeth and her husband.</p>

<p>"I say, Marneffe, what would you say to being a second time a
father?"</p>

<p>"You don't mean it--a baby?--Oh, let me kiss you!"</p>

<p>He rose and went round the table; his wife held up her head so
that he<br>
 could just kiss her hair.</p>

<p>"If that is so," he went on, "I am head-clerk and officer of
the<br>
 Legion of Honor at once. But you must understand, my dear,
Stanislas<br>
 is not to be the sufferer, poor little man."</p>

<p>"Poor little man?" Lisbeth put in. "You have not set your eyes
on him<br>
 these seven months. I am supposed to be his mother at the
school; I am<br>
 the only person in the house who takes any trouble about
him."</p>

<p>"A brat that costs us a hundred crowns a quarter!" said
Valerie. "And<br>
 he, at any rate, is your own child, Marneffe. You ought to pay
for his<br>
 schooling out of your salary.--The newcomer, far from reminding
us of<br>
 butcher's bills, will rescue us from want."</p>

<p>"Valerie," replied Marneffe, assuming an attitude like Crevel,
"I hope<br>
 that Monsieur le Baron Hulot will take proper charge of his son,
and<br>
 not lay the burden on a poor clerk. I intend to keep him well up
to<br>
 the mark. So take the necessary steps, madame! Get him to write
you<br>
 letters in which he alludes to his satisfaction, for he is
rather<br>
 backward in coming forward in regard to my appointment."</p>

<p>And Marneffe went away to the office, where his chief's
precious<br>
 leniency allowed him to come in at about eleven o'clock. And,
indeed,<br>
 he did little enough, for his incapacity was notorious, and
he<br>
 detested work.</p>

<p>No sooner were they alone than Lisbeth and Valerie looked at
each<br>
 other for a moment like Augurs, and both together burst into a
loud<br>
 fit of laughter.</p>

<p>"I say, Valerie--is it the fact?" said Lisbeth, "or merely a
farce?"</p>

<p>"It is a physical fact!" replied Valerie. "Now, I am sick and
tired of<br>
 Hortense; and it occurred to me in the night that I might fire
this<br>
 infant, like a bomb, into the Steinbock household."</p>

<p>Valerie went back to her room, followed by Lisbeth, to whom
she showed<br>
 the following letter:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"WENCESLAS MY DEAR,--I still believe in your love, though it
is<br>
 nearly three weeks since I saw you. Is this scorn? Delilah
can<br>
 scarcely believe that. Does it not rather result from the
tyranny<br>
 of a woman whom, as you told me, you can no longer love?<br>
 Wenceslas, you are too great an artist to submit to such
dominion.<br>
 Home is the grave of glory.--Consider now, are you the
Wenceslas<br>
 of the Rue du Doyenne? You missed fire with my father's
statue;<br>
 but in you the lover is greater than the artist, and you have
had<br>
 better luck with his daughter. You are a father, my beloved<br>
 Wenceslas.</p>

<p>"If you do not come to me in the state I am in, your friends
would<br>
 think very badly of you. But I love you so madly, that I feel
I<br>
 should never have the strength to curse you. May I sign myself
as<br>
 ever,</p>

<p>"YOUR VALERIE."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 "What do you say to my scheme for sending this note to the
studio at a<br>
 time when our dear Hortense is there by herself?" asked Valerie.
"Last<br>
 evening I heard from Stidmann that Wenceslas is to pick him up
at<br>
 eleven this morning to go on business to Chanor's; so that
gawk<br>
 Hortense will be there alone."</p>

<p><br>
 "But after such a trick as that," replied Lisbeth, "I cannot
continue<br>
 to be your friend in the eyes of the world; I shall have to
break with<br>
 you, to be supposed never to visit you, or even to speak to
you."</p>

<p>"Evidently," said Valerie; "but--"</p>

<p>"Oh! be quite easy," interrupted Lisbeth; "we shall often meet
when I<br>
 am Madame la Marechale. They are all set upon it now. Only the
Baron<br>
 is in ignorance of the plan, but you can talk him over."</p>

<p>"Well," said Valerie, "but it is quite likely that the Baron
and I may<br>
 be on distant terms before long."</p>

<p>"Madame Olivier is the only person who can make Hortense
demand to see<br>
 the letter," said Lisbeth. "And you must send her to the Rue
Saint-<br>
 Dominique before she goes on to the studio."</p>

<p>"Our beauty will be at home, no doubt," said Valerie, ringing
for<br>
 Reine to call up Madame Olivier.</p>

<p>Ten minutes after the despatch of this fateful letter, Baron
Hulot<br>
 arrived. Madame Marneffe threw her arms round the old man's neck
with<br>
 kittenish impetuosity.</p>

<p>"Hector, you are a father!" she said in his ear. "That is what
comes<br>
 of quarreling and making friends again----"</p>

<p>Perceiving a look of surprise, which the Baron did not at
once<br>
 conceal, Valerie assumed a reserve which brought the old man
to<br>
 despair. She made him wring the proofs from her one by one.
When<br>
 conviction, led on by vanity, had at last entered his mind,
she<br>
 enlarged on Monsieur Marneffe's wrath.</p>

<p>"My dear old veteran," said she, "you can hardly avoid getting
your<br>
 responsible editor, our representative partner if you like,
appointed<br>
 head-clerk and officer of the Legion of Honor, for you really
have<br>
 done for the poor man, he adores his Stanislas, the little
monstrosity<br>
 who is so like him, that to me he is insufferable. Unless you
prefer<br>
 to settle twelve hundred francs a year on Stanislas--the capital
to be<br>
 his, and the life-interest payable to me, of course--"</p>

<p>"But if I am to settle securities, I would rather it should be
on my<br>
 own son, and not on the monstrosity," said the Baron.</p>

<p>This rash speech, in which the words "my own son" came out as
full as<br>
 a river in flood, was, by the end of the hour, ratified as a
formal<br>
 promise to settle twelve hundred francs a year on the future
boy. And<br>
 this promise became, on Valerie's tongue and in her countenance,
what<br>
 a drum is in the hands of a child; for three weeks she played on
it<br>
 incessantly.</p>

<p>At the moment when Baron Hulot was leaving the Rue Vanneau, as
happy<br>
 as a man who after a year of married life still desires an
heir,<br>
 Madame Olivier had yielded to Hortense, and given up the note
she was<br>
 instructed to give only into the Count's own hands. The young
wife<br>
 paid twenty francs for that letter. The wretch who commits
suicide<br>
 must pay for the opium, the pistol, the charcoal.</p>

<p>Hortense read and re-read the note; she saw nothing but this
sheet of<br>
 white paper streaked with black lines; the universe held for
her<br>
 nothing but that paper; everything was dark around her. The
glare of<br>
 the conflagration that was consuming the edifice of her
happiness<br>
 lighted up the page, for blackest night enfolded her. The shouts
of<br>
 her little Wenceslas at play fell on her ear, as if he had been
in the<br>
 depths of a valley and she on a high mountain. Thus insulted at
four-<br>
 and-twenty, in all the splendor of her beauty, enhanced by pure
and<br>
 devoted love--it was not a stab, it was death. The first shock
had<br>
 been merely on the nerves, the physical frame had struggled in
the<br>
 grip of jealousy; but now certainty had seized her soul, her
body was<br>
 unconscious.</p>

<p>For about ten minutes Hortense sat under the incubus of
this<br>
 oppression. Then a vision of her mother appeared before her,
and<br>
 revulsion ensued; she was calm and cool, and mistress of her
reason.</p>

<p>She rang.</p>

<p>"Get Louise to help you, child," said she to the cook. "As
quickly as<br>
 you can, pack up everything that belongs to me and everything
wanted<br>
 for the little boy. I give you an hour. When all is ready, fetch
a<br>
 hackney coach from the stand, and call me.</p>

<p>"Make no remarks! I am leaving the house, and shall take
Louise with<br>
 me. You must stay here with monsieur; take good care of
him----"</p>

<p>She went into her room, and wrote the following letter:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"MONSIEUR LE COMTE,--</p>

<p>"The letter I enclose will sufficiently account for the<br>
 determination I have come to.</p>

<p>"When you read this, I shall have left your house and have
found<br>
 refuge with my mother, taking our child with me.</p>

<p>"Do not imagine that I shall retrace my steps. Do not imagine
that<br>
 I am acting with the rash haste of youth, without reflection,
with<br>
 the anger of offended affection; you will be greatly
mistaken.</p>

<p>"I have been thinking very deeply during the last fortnight
of<br>
 life, of love, of our marriage, of our duties to each other.
I<br>
 have known the perfect devotion of my mother; she has told me
all<br>
 her sorrows! She has been heroical--every day for
twenty-three<br>
 years. But I have not the strength to imitate her, not because
I<br>
 love you less than she loves my father, but for reasons of
spirit<br>
 and nature. Our home would be a hell; I might lose my head so
far<br>
 as to disgrace you--disgrace myself and our child.</p>

<p>"I refuse to be a Madame Marneffe; once launched on such a
course,<br>
 a woman of my temper might not, perhaps, be able to stop. I
am,<br>
 unfortunately for myself, a Hulot, not a Fischer.</p>

<p>"Alone, and absent from the scene of your dissipations, I am
sure<br>
 of myself, especially with my child to occupy me, and by the
side<br>
 of a strong and noble mother, whose life cannot fail to
influence<br>
 the vehement impetuousness of my feelings. There, I can be a
good<br>
 mother, bring our boy up well, and live. Under your roof the
wife<br>
 would oust the mother; and constant contention would sour my<br>
 temper.</p>

<p>"I can accept a death-blow, but I will not endure for
twenty-five<br>
 years, like my mother. If, at the end of three years of
perfect,<br>
 unwavering love, you can be unfaithful to me with your
father-in-<br>
 law's mistress, what rivals may I expect to have in later
years?<br>
 Indeed, monsieur, you have begun your career of profligacy
much<br>
 earlier than my father did, the life of dissipation, which is
a<br>
 disgrace to the father of a family, which undermines the
respect<br>
 of his children, and which ends in shame and despair.</p>

<p>"I am not unforgiving. Unrelenting feelings do not beseem
erring<br>
 creatures living under the eye of God. If you win fame and
fortune<br>
 by sustained work, if you have nothing to do with courtesans
and<br>
 ignoble, defiling ways, you will find me still a wife worthy
of<br>
 you.</p>

<p>"I believe you to be too much a gentleman, Monsieur le Comte,
to<br>
 have recourse to the law. You will respect my wishes, and leave
me<br>
 under my mother's roof. Above all, never let me see you there.
I<br>
 have left all the money lent to you by that odious woman.--<br>
 Farewell.</p>

<p>"HORTENSE HULOT."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 This letter was written in anguish. Hortense abandoned herself
to the<br>
 tears, the outcries of murdered love. She laid down her pen and
took<br>
 it up again, to express as simply as possible all that
passion<br>
 commonly proclaims in this sort of testamentary letter. Her
heart went<br>
 forth in exclamations, wailing and weeping; but reason dictated
the<br>
 words.</p>

<p><br>
 Informed by Louise that all was ready, the young wife slowly
went<br>
 round the little garden, through the bedroom and drawing-room,
looking<br>
 at everything for the last time. Then she earnestly enjoined the
cook<br>
 to take the greatest care for her master's comfort, promising
to<br>
 reward her handsomely if she would be honest. At last she got
into the<br>
 hackney coach to drive to her mother's house, her heart quite
broken,<br>
 crying so much as to distress the maid, and covering little
Wenceslas<br>
 with kisses, which betrayed her still unfailing love for his
father.</p>

<p>The Baroness knew already from Lisbeth that the father-in-law
was<br>
 largely to blame for the son-in-law's fault; nor was she
surprised to<br>
 see her daughter, whose conduct she approved, and she consented
to<br>
 give her shelter. Adeline, perceiving that her own gentleness
and<br>
 patience had never checked Hector, for whom her respect was
indeed<br>
 fast diminishing, thought her daughter very right to adopt
another<br>
 course.</p>

<p>In three weeks the poor mother had suffered two wounds of
which the<br>
 pain was greater than any ill-fortune she had hitherto endured.
The<br>
 Baron had placed Victorin and his wife in great difficulties;
and<br>
 then, by Lisbeth's account, he was the cause of his
son-in-law's<br>
 misconduct, and had corrupted Wenceslas. The dignity of the
father of<br>
 the family, so long upheld by her really foolish self-sacrifice,
was<br>
 now overthrown. Though they did not regret the money the young
Hulots<br>
 were full alike of doubts and uneasiness as regarded the Baron.
This<br>
 sentiment, which was evidence enough, distressed the Baroness;
she<br>
 foresaw a break-up of the family tie.</p>

<p>Hortense was accommodated in the dining-room, arranged as a
bedroom<br>
 with the help of the Marshal's money, and the anteroom became
the<br>
 dining-room, as it is in many apartments.</p>

<p>When Wenceslas returned home and had read the two letters, he
felt a<br>
 kind of gladness mingled with regret. Kept so constantly under
his<br>
 wife's eye, so to speak, he had inwardly rebelled against this
fresh<br>
 thraldom, <i>a la</i> Lisbeth. Full fed with love for three
years past, he<br>
 too had been reflecting during the last fortnight; and he found
a<br>
 family heavy on his hands. He had just been congratulated by
Stidmann<br>
 on the passion he had inspired in Valerie; for Stidmann, with
an<br>
 under-thought that was not unnatural, saw that he might flatter
the<br>
 husband's vanity in the hope of consoling the victim. And
Wenceslas<br>
 was glad to be able to return to Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>Still, he remembered the pure and unsullied happiness he had
known,<br>
 the perfections of his wife, her judgment, her innocent and
guileless<br>
 affection,--and he regretted her acutely. He thought of going at
once<br>
 to his mother-in-law's to crave forgiveness; but, in fact, like
Hulot<br>
 and Crevel, he went to Madame Marneffe, to whom he carried his
wife's<br>
 letter to show her what a disaster she had caused, and to
discount his<br>
 misfortune, so to speak, by claiming in return the pleasures
his<br>
 mistress could give him.</p>

<p>He found Crevel with Valerie. The mayor, puffed up with pride,
marched<br>
 up and down the room, agitated by a storm of feelings. He put
himself<br>
 into position as if he were about to speak, but he dared not.
His<br>
 countenance was beaming, and he went now and again to the
window,<br>
 where he drummed on the pane with his fingers. He kept looking
at<br>
 Valerie with a glance of tender pathos. Happily for him,
Lisbeth<br>
 presently came in.</p>

<p>"Cousin Betty," he said in her ear, "have you heard the news?
I am a<br>
 father! It seems to me I love my poor Celestine the less.--Oh!
what a<br>
 thing it is to have a child by the woman one idolizes! It is
the<br>
 fatherhood of the heart added to that of the flesh! I
say--tell<br>
 Valerie that I will work for that child--it shall be rich. She
tells<br>
 me she has some reason for believing that it will be a boy! If
it is a<br>
 boy, I shall insist on his being called Crevel. I will consult
my<br>
 notary about it."</p>

<p>"I know how much she loves you," said Lisbeth. "But for her
sake in<br>
 the future, and for your own, control yourself. Do not rub your
hands<br>
 every five minutes."</p>

<p>While Lisbeth was speaking aside on this wise to Crevel,
Valerie had<br>
 asked Wenceslas to give her back her letter, and she was saying
things<br>
 that dispelled all his griefs.</p>

<p>"So now you are free, my dear," said she. "Ought any great
artist to<br>
 marry? You live only by fancy and freedom! There, I shall love
you so<br>
 much, beloved poet, that you shall never regret your wife. At
the same<br>
 time, if, like so many people, you want to keep up appearances,
I<br>
 undertake to bring Hortense back to you in a very short
time."</p>

<p>"Oh, if only that were possible!"</p>

<p>"I am certain of it," said Valerie, nettled. "Your poor
father-in-law<br>
 is a man who is in every way utterly done for; who wants to
appear as<br>
 though he could be loved, out of conceit, and to make the
world<br>
 believe that he has a mistress; and he is so excessively vain on
this<br>
 point, that I can do what I please with him. The Baroness is
still so<br>
 devoted to her old Hector--I always feel as if I were talking of
the<br>
 <i>Iliad</i>--that these two old folks will contrive to patch up
matters<br>
 between you and Hortense. Only, if you want to avoid storms at
home<br>
 for the future, do not leave me for three weeks without coming
to see<br>
 your mistress--I was dying of it. My dear boy, some
consideration is<br>
 due from a gentleman to a woman he has so deeply
compromised,<br>
 especially when, as in my case, she has to be very careful of
her<br>
 reputation.</p>

<p>"Stay to dinner, my darling--and remember that I must treat
you with<br>
 all the more apparent coldness because you are guilty of this
too<br>
 obvious mishap."</p>

<p>Baron Montes was presently announced; Valerie rose and hurried
forward<br>
 to meet him; she spoke a few sentences in his ear, enjoining on
him<br>
 the same reserve as she had impressed on Wenceslas; the
Brazilian<br>
 assumed a diplomatic reticence suitable to the great news which
filled<br>
 him with delight, for he, at any rate was sure of his
paternity.</p>

<p>Thanks to these tactics, based on the vanity of the man in the
lover<br>
 stage of his existence, Valerie sat down to table with four men,
all<br>
 pleased and eager to please, all charmed, and each believing
himself<br>
 adored; called by Marneffe, who included himself, in speaking
to<br>
 Lisbeth, the five Fathers of the Church.</p>

<p>Baron Hulot alone at first showed an anxious countenance, and
this was<br>
 why. Just as he was leaving the office, the head of the staff
of<br>
 clerks had come to his private room--a General with whom he had
served<br>
 for thirty years--and Hulot had spoken to him as to
appointing<br>
 Marneffe to Coquet's place, Coquet having consented to
retire.</p>

<p>"My dear fellow," said he, "I would not ask this favor of the
Prince<br>
 without our having agreed on the matter, and knowing that
you<br>
 approved."</p>

<p>"My good friend," replied the other, "you must allow me to
observe<br>
 that, for your own sake, you should not insist on this
nomination. I<br>
 have already told you my opinion. There would be a scandal in
the<br>
 office, where there is a great deal too much talk already about
you<br>
 and Madame Marneffe. This, of course, is between ourselves. I
have no<br>
 wish to touch you on a sensitive spot, or disoblige you in any
way,<br>
 and I will prove it. If you are determined to get Monsieur
Coquet's<br>
 place, and he will really be a loss in the War Office, for he
has been<br>
 here since 1809, I will go into the country for a fortnight, so
as to<br>
 leave the field open between you and the Marshal, who loves you
as a<br>
 son. Then I shall take neither part, and shall have nothing on
my<br>
 conscience as an administrator."</p>

<p>"Thank you very much," said Hulot. "I will reflect on what you
have<br>
 said."</p>

<p>"In allowing myself to say so much, my dear friend, it is
because your<br>
 personal interest is far more deeply implicated than any concern
or<br>
 vanity of mine. In the first place, the matter lies entirely
with the<br>
 Marshal. And then, my good fellow, we are blamed for so many
things,<br>
 that one more or less! We are not at the maiden stage in our<br>
 experience of fault-finding. Under the Restoration, men were put
in<br>
 simply to give them places, without any regard for the
office.--We are<br>
 old friends----"</p>

<p>"Yes," the Baron put in; "and it is in order not to impair our
old and<br>
 valued friendship that I--"</p>

<p>"Well, well," said the departmental manager, seeing Hulot's
face<br>
 clouded with embarrassment, "I will take myself off, old
fellow.--But<br>
 I warn you! you have enemies--that is to say, men who covet
your<br>
 splendid appointment, and you have but one anchor out. Now if,
like<br>
 me, you were a Deputy, you would have nothing to fear; so mind
what<br>
 you are about."</p>

<p>This speech, in the most friendly spirit, made a deep
impression on<br>
 the Councillor of State.</p>

<p>"But, after all, Roger, what is it that is wrong? Do not make
any<br>
 mysteries with me."</p>

<p>The individual addressed as Roger looked at Hulot, took his
hand, and<br>
 pressed it.</p>

<p>"We are such old friends, that I am bound to give you warning.
If you<br>
 want to keep your place, you must make a bed for yourself, and
instead<br>
 of asking the Marshal to give Coquet's place to Marneffe, in
your<br>
 place I would beg him to use his influence to reserve a seat for
me on<br>
 the General Council of State; there you may die in peace, and,
like<br>
 the beaver, abandon all else to the pursuers."</p>

<p>"What, do you think the Marshal would forget--"</p>

<p>"The Marshal has already taken your part so warmly at a
General<br>
 Meeting of the Ministers, that you will not now be turned out;
but it<br>
 was seriously discussed! So give them no excuse. I can say no
more. At<br>
 this moment you may make your own terms; you may sit on the
Council of<br>
 State and be made a Peer of the Chamber. If you delay too long,
if you<br>
 give any one a hold against you, I can answer for nothing.--Now,
am I<br>
 to go?"</p>

<p>"Wait a little. I will see the Marshal," replied Hulot, "and I
will<br>
 send my brother to see which way the wind blows at
headquarters."</p>

<p>The humor in which the Baron came back to Madame Marneffe's
may be<br>
 imagined; he had almost forgotten his fatherhood, for Roger had
taken<br>
 the part of a true and kind friend in explaining the position.
At the<br>
 same time Valerie's influence was so great that, by the middle
of<br>
 dinner, the Baron was tuned up to the pitch, and was all the
more<br>
 cheerful for having unwonted anxieties to conceal; but the
hapless man<br>
 was not yet aware that in the course of that evening he would
find<br>
 himself in a cleft stick, between his happiness and the danger
pointed<br>
 out by his friend--compelled, in short, to choose between
Madame<br>
 Marneffe and his official position.</p>

<p>At eleven o'clock, when the evening was at its gayest, for the
room<br>
 was full of company, Valerie drew Hector into a corner of her
sofa.</p>

<p>"My dear old boy," said she, "your daughter is so annoyed at
knowing<br>
 that Wenceslas comes here, that she has left him 'planted.'
Hortense<br>
 is wrong-headed. Ask Wenceslas to show you the letter the little
fool<br>
 has written to him.</p>

<p>"This division of two lovers, of which I am reputed to be the
cause,<br>
 may do me the greatest harm, for this is how virtuous women
undermine<br>
 each other. It is disgraceful to pose as a victim in order to
cast the<br>
 blame on a woman whose only crime is that she keeps a pleasant
house.<br>
 If you love me, you will clear my character by reconciling the
sweet<br>
 turtle-doves.</p>

<p>"I do not in the least care about your son-in-law's visits;
you<br>
 brought him here--take him away again! If you have any authority
in<br>
 your family, it seems to me that you may very well insist on
your<br>
 wife's patching up this squabble. Tell the worthy old lady from
me,<br>
 that if I am unjustly charged with having caused a young couple
to<br>
 quarrel, with upsetting the unity of a family, and annexing both
the<br>
 father and the son-in-law, I will deserve my reputation by
annoying<br>
 them in my own way! Why, here is Lisbeth talking of throwing me
over!<br>
 She prefers to stick to her family, and I cannot blame her for
it. She<br>
 will throw me over, says she, unless the young people make
friends<br>
 again. A pretty state of things! Our expenses here will be
trebled!"</p>

<p><br>
 "Oh, as for that!" said the Baron, on hearing of his daughter's
strong<br>
 measures, "I will have no nonsense of that kind."</p>

<p>"Very well," said Valerie. "And now for the next thing.--What
about<br>
 Coquet's place?"</p>

<p>"That," said Hector, looking away, "is more difficult, not to
say<br>
 impossible."</p>

<p>"Impossible, my dear Hector?" said Madame Marneffe in the
Baron's ear.<br>
 "But you do not know to what lengths Marneffe will go. I am
completely<br>
 in his power; he is immoral for his own gratification, like most
men,<br>
 but he is excessively vindictive, like all weak and impotent
natures.<br>
 In the position to which you have reduced me, I am in his power.
I am<br>
 bound to be on terms with him for a few days, and he is quite
capable<br>
 of refusing to leave my room any more."</p>

<p>Hulot started with horror.</p>

<p>"He would leave me alone on condition of being head-clerk. It
is<br>
 abominable--but logical."</p>

<p>"Valerie, do you love me?"</p>

<p>"In the state in which I am, my dear, the question is the
meanest<br>
 insult."</p>

<p>"Well, then--if I were to attempt, merely to attempt, to ask
the<br>
 Prince for a place for Marneffe, I should be done for, and
Marneffe<br>
 would be turned out."</p>

<p>"I thought that you and the Prince were such intimate
friends."</p>

<p>"We are, and he has amply proved it; but, my child, there is
authority<br>
 above the Marshal's--for instance, the whole Council of
Ministers.<br>
 With time and a little tacking, we shall get there. But, to
succeed, I<br>
 must wait till the moment when some service is required of me.
Then I<br>
 can say one good turn deserves another--"</p>

<p>"If I tell Marneffe this tale, my poor Hector, he will play us
some<br>
 mean trick. You must tell him yourself that he has to wait. I
will not<br>
 undertake to do so. Oh! I know what my fate would be. He knows
how to<br>
 punish me! He will henceforth share my room----</p>

<p>"Do not forget to settle the twelve hundred francs a year on
the<br>
 little one!"</p>

<p>Hulot, seeing his pleasures in danger, took Monsieur Marneffe
aside,<br>
 and for the first time derogated from the haughty tone he had
always<br>
 assumed towards him, so greatly was he horrified by the thought
of<br>
 that half-dead creature in his pretty young wife's bedroom.</p>

<p>"Marneffe, my dear fellow," said he, "I have been talking of
you<br>
 to-day. But you cannot be promoted to the first class just yet.
We<br>
 must have time."</p>

<p>"I will be, Monsieur le Baron," said Marneffe shortly.</p>

<p>"But, my dear fellow--"</p>

<p>"I <i>will</i> be, Monsieur le Baron," Marneffe coldly
repeated, looking<br>
 alternately at the Baron and at Valerie. "You have placed my
wife in a<br>
 position that necessitates her making up her differences with
me, and<br>
 I mean to keep her; for, <i>my dear fellow</i>, she is a
charming<br>
 creature," he added, with crushing irony. "I am master
here--more than<br>
 you are at the War Office."</p>

<p>The Baron felt one of those pangs of fury which have the
effect, in<br>
 the heart, of a fit of raging toothache, and he could hardly
conceal<br>
 the tears in his eyes.</p>

<p>During this little scene, Valerie had been explaining
Marneffe's<br>
 imaginary determination to Montes, and thus had rid herself of
him for<br>
 a time.</p>

<p>Of her four adherents, Crevel alone was exempted from the
rule--<br>
 Crevel, the master of the little "bijou" apartment; and he
displayed<br>
 on his countenance an air of really insolent beatitude,<br>
 notwithstanding the wordless reproofs administered by Valerie
in<br>
 frowns and meaning grimaces. His triumphant paternity beamed in
every<br>
 feature.</p>

<p>When Valerie was whispering a word of correction in his ear,
he<br>
 snatched her hand, and put in:</p>

<p>"To-morrow, my Duchess, you shall have your own little house!
The<br>
 papers are to be signed to-morrow."</p>

<p>"And the furniture?" said she, with a smile.</p>

<p>"I have a thousand shares in the Versailles <i>rive gauche</i>
railway. I<br>
 bought them at twenty-five, and they will go up to three hundred
in<br>
 consequence of the amalgamation of the two lines, which is a
secret<br>
 told to me. You shall have furniture fit for a queen. But then
you<br>
 will be mine alone henceforth?"</p>

<p>"Yes, burly Maire," said this middle-class Madame de Merteuil.
"But<br>
 behave yourself; respect the future Madame Crevel."</p>

<p>"My dear cousin," Lisbeth was saying to the Baron, "I shall go
to see<br>
 Adeline early to-morrow; for, as you must see, I cannot, with
any<br>
 decency, remain here. I will go and keep house for your brother
the<br>
 Marshal."</p>

<p>"I am going home this evening," said Hulot.</p>

<p>"Very well, you will see me at breakfast to-morrow," said
Lisbeth,<br>
 smiling.</p>

<p>She understood that her presence would be necessary at the
family<br>
 scene that would take place on the morrow. And the very first
thing in<br>
 the morning she went to see Victorin and to tell him that
Hortense and<br>
 Wenceslas had parted.</p>

<p>When the Baron went home at half-past ten, Mariette and
Louise, who<br>
 had had a hard day, were locking up the apartment. Hulot had not
to<br>
 ring.</p>

<p>Very much put out at this compulsory virtue, the husband went
straight<br>
 to his wife's room, and through the half-open door he saw her
kneeling<br>
 before her Crucifix, absorbed in prayer, in one of those
attitudes<br>
 which make the fortune of the painter or the sculptor who is so
happy<br>
 to invent and then to express them. Adeline, carried away by
her<br>
 enthusiasm, was praying aloud:</p>

<p>"O God, have mercy and enlighten him!"</p>

<p>The Baroness was praying for her Hector.</p>

<p>At this sight, so unlike what he had just left, and on hearing
this<br>
 petition founded on the events of the day, the Baron heaved a
sigh of<br>
 deep emotion. Adeline looked round, her face drowned in tears.
She was<br>
 so convinced that her prayer had been heard, that, with one
spring,<br>
 she threw her arms round Hector with the impetuosity of
happy<br>
 affection. Adeline had given up all a wife's instincts; sorrow
had<br>
 effaced even the memory of them. No feeling survived in her but
those<br>
 of motherhood, of the family honor, and the pure attachment of
a<br>
 Christian wife for a husband who has gone astray--the
saintly<br>
 tenderness which survives all else in a woman's soul.</p>

<p>"Hector!" she said, "are you come back to us? Has God taken
pity on<br>
 our family?"</p>

<p>"Dear Adeline," replied the Baron, coming in and seating his
wife by<br>
 his side on a couch, "you are the saintliest creature I ever
knew; I<br>
 have long known myself to be unworthy of you."</p>

<p>"You would have very little to do, my dear," said she, holding
Hulot's<br>
 hand and trembling so violently that it was as though she had a
palsy,<br>
 "very little to set things in order--"</p>

<p>She dared not proceed; she felt that every word would be a
reproof,<br>
 and she did not wish to mar the happiness with which this
meeting was<br>
 inundating her soul.</p>

<p>"It is Hortense who has brought me here," said Hulot. "That
child may<br>
 do us far more harm by her hasty proceeding than my absurd
passion for<br>
 Valerie has ever done. But we will discuss all this to-morrow
morning.<br>
 Hortense is asleep, Mariette tells me; we will not disturb
her."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Madame Hulot, suddenly plunged into the depths of
grief.</p>

<p>She understood that the Baron's return was prompted not so
much by the<br>
 wish to see his family as by some ulterior interest.</p>

<p>"Leave her in peace till to-morrow," said the mother. "The
poor child<br>
 is in a deplorable condition; she has been crying all day."</p>

<p>At nine the next morning, the Baron, awaiting his daughter,
whom he<br>
 had sent for, was pacing the large, deserted drawing-room,
trying to<br>
 find arguments by which to conquer the most difficult form
of<br>
 obstinacy there is to deal with--that of a young wife, offended
and<br>
 implacable, as blameless youth ever is, in its ignorance of
the<br>
 disgraceful compromises of the world, of its passions and
interests.</p>

<p>"Here I am, papa," said Hortense in a tremulous voice, and
looking<br>
 pale from her miseries.</p>

<p>Hulot, sitting down, took his daughter round the waist, and
drew her<br>
 down to sit on his knee.</p>

<p>"Well, my child," said he, kissing her forehead, "so there
are<br>
 troubles at home, and you have been hasty and headstrong? That
is not<br>
 like a well-bred child. My Hortense ought not to have taken such
a<br>
 decisive step as that of leaving her house and deserting her
husband<br>
 on her own account, and without consulting her parents. If my
darling<br>
 girl had come to see her kind and admirable mother, she would
not have<br>
 given me this cruel pain I feel!--You do not know the world; it
is<br>
 malignantly spiteful. People will perhaps say that your husband
sent<br>
 you back to your parents. Children brought up as you were, on
your<br>
 mother's lap, remain artless; maidenly passion like yours
for<br>
 Wenceslas, unfortunately, makes no allowances; it acts on
every<br>
 impulse. The little heart is moved, the head follows suit. You
would<br>
 burn down Paris to be revenged, with no thought of the courts
of<br>
 justice!</p>

<p>"When your old father tells you that you have outraged the<br>
 proprieties, you may take his word for it.--I say nothing of the
cruel<br>
 pain you have given me. It is bitter, I assure you, for you
throw all<br>
 the blame on a woman of whose heart you know nothing, and
whose<br>
 hostility may become disastrous. And you, alas! so full of
guileless<br>
 innocence and purity, can have no suspicions; but you may be
vilified<br>
 and slandered.--Besides, my darling pet, you have taken a
foolish jest<br>
 too seriously. I can assure you, on my honor, that your husband
is<br>
 blameless. Madame Marneffe--"</p>

<p>So far the Baron, artistically diplomatic, had formulated
his<br>
 remonstrances very judiciously. He had, as may be observed,
worked up<br>
 to the mention of this name with superior skill; and yet
Hortense, as<br>
 she heard it, winced as if stung to the quick.</p>

<p>"Listen to me; I have had great experience, and I have seen
much," he<br>
 went on, stopping his daughter's attempt to speak. "That lady is
very<br>
 cold to your husband. Yes, you have been made the victim of
a<br>
 practical joke, and I will prove it to you. Yesterday Wenceslas
was<br>
 dining with her--"</p>

<p>"Dining with her!" cried the young wife, starting to her feet,
and<br>
 looking at her father with horror in every feature. "Yesterday!
After<br>
 having had my letter! Oh, great God!--Why did I not take the
veil<br>
 rather than marry? But now my life is not my own! I have the
child!"<br>
 and she sobbed.</p>

<p>Her weeping went to Madame Hulot's heart. She came out of her
room and<br>
 ran to her daughter, taking her in her arms, and asking her
those<br>
 questions, stupid with grief, which first rose to her lips.</p>

<p>"Now we have tears," said the Baron to himself, "and all was
going so<br>
 well! What is to be done with women who cry?"</p>

<p>"My child," said the Baroness, "listen to your father! He
loves us all<br>
 --come, come--"</p>

<p>"Come, Hortense, my dear little girl, cry no more, you make
yourself<br>
 too ugly!" said the Baron, "Now, be a little reasonable. Go
sensibly<br>
 home, and I promise you that Wenceslas shall never set foot in
that<br>
 woman's house. I ask you to make the sacrifice, if it is a
sacrifice<br>
 to forgive the husband you love so small a fault. I ask you--for
the<br>
 sake of my gray hairs, and of the love you owe your mother. You
do not<br>
 want to blight my later years with bitterness and regret?"</p>

<p>Hortense fell at her father's feet like a crazed thing, with
the<br>
 vehemence of despair; her hair, loosely pinned up, fell about
her, and<br>
 she held out her hands with an expression that painted her
misery.</p>

<p>"Father," she said, "ask my life! Take it if you will, but at
least<br>
 take it pure and spotless, and I will yield it up gladly. Do not
ask<br>
 me to die in dishonor and crime. I am not at all like my
husband; I<br>
 cannot swallow an outrage. If I went back under my husband's
roof, I<br>
 should be capable of smothering him in a fit of jealousy--or of
doing<br>
 worse! Do no exact from me a thing that is beyond my powers. Do
not<br>
 have to mourn for me still living, for the least that can befall
me is<br>
 to go mad. I feel madness close upon me!</p>

<p><br>
 "Yesterday, yesterday, he could dine with that woman, after
having<br>
 read my letter?--Are other men made so? My life I give you, but
do not<br>
 let my death be ignominious!--His fault?--A small one! When he
has a<br>
 child by that woman!"</p>

<p>"A child!" cried Hulot, starting back a step or two. "Come.
This is<br>
 really some fooling."</p>

<p>At this juncture Victorin and Lisbeth arrived, and stood
dumfounded at<br>
 the scene. The daughter was prostrate at her father's feet.
The<br>
 Baroness, speechless between her maternal feelings and her
conjugal<br>
 duty, showed a harassed face bathed in tears.</p>

<p>"Lisbeth," said the Baron, seizing his cousin by the hand and
pointing<br>
 to Hortense, "you can help me here. My poor child's brain is
turned;<br>
 she believes that her Wenceslas is Madame Marneffe's lover,
while all<br>
 that Valerie wanted was to have a group by him."</p>

<p>"<i>Delilah</i>!" cried the young wife. "The only thing he has
done since<br>
 our marriage. The man would not work for me or for his son, and
he has<br>
 worked with frenzy for that good-for-nothing creature.--Oh,
father,<br>
 kill me outright, for every word stabs like a knife!"</p>

<p>Lisbeth turned to the Baroness and Victorin, pointing with a
pitying<br>
 shrug to the Baron, who could not see her.</p>

<p>"Listen to me," said she to him. "I had no idea--when you
asked me to<br>
 go to lodge over Madame Marneffe and keep house for her--I had
no idea<br>
 of what she was; but many things may be learned in three years.
That<br>
 creature is a prostitute, and one whose depravity can only be
compared<br>
 with that of her infamous and horrible husband. You are the
dupe, my<br>
 lord pot-boiler, of those people; you will be led further by
them than<br>
 you dream of! I speak plainly, for you are at the bottom of a
pit."</p>

<p>The Baroness and her daughter, hearing Lisbeth speak in this
style,<br>
 cast adoring looks at her, such as the devout cast at a Madonna
for<br>
 having saved their life.</p>

<p>"That horrible woman was bent on destroying your son-in-law's
home. To<br>
 what end?--I know not. My brain is not equal to seeing clearly
into<br>
 these dark intrigues--perverse, ignoble, infamous! Your
Madame<br>
 Marneffe does not love your son-in-law, but she will have him at
her<br>
 feet out of revenge. I have just spoken to the wretched woman as
she<br>
 deserves. She is a shameless courtesan; I have told her that I
am<br>
 leaving her house, that I would not have my honor smirched in
that<br>
 muck-heap.--I owe myself to my family before all else.</p>

<p>"I knew that Hortense had left her husband, so here I am.
Your<br>
 Valerie, whom you believe to be a saint, is the cause of
this<br>
 miserable separation; can I remain with such a woman? Our poor
little<br>
 Hortense," said she, touching the Baron's arm, with peculiar
meaning,<br>
 "is perhaps the dupe of a wish of such women as these, who, to
possess<br>
 a toy, would sacrifice a family.</p>

<p>"I do not think Wenceslas guilty; but I think him weak, and I
cannot<br>
 promise that he will not yield to her refinements of
temptation.--My<br>
 mind is made up. The woman is fatal to you; she will bring you
all to<br>
 utter ruin. I will not even seem to be concerned in the
destruction of<br>
 my own family, after living there for three years solely to
hinder it.</p>

<p>"You are cheated, Baron; say very positively that you will
have<br>
 nothing to say to the promotion of that dreadful Marneffe, and
you<br>
 will see then! There is a fine rod in pickle for you in that
case."</p>

<p>Lisbeth lifted up Hortense and kissed her
enthusiastically.</p>

<p>"My dear Hortense, stand firm," she whispered.</p>

<p>The Baroness embraced Lisbeth with the vehemence of a woman
who sees<br>
 herself avenged. The whole family stood in perfect silence round
the<br>
 father, who had wit enough to know what that silence implied. A
storm<br>
 of fury swept across his brow and face with evident signs; the
veins<br>
 swelled, his eyes were bloodshot, his flesh showed patches of
color.<br>
 Adeline fell on her knees before him and seized his hands.</p>

<p>"My dear, forgive, my dear!"</p>

<p>"You loathe me!" cried the Baron--the cry of his
conscience.</p>

<p>For we all know the secret of our own wrong-doing. We almost
always<br>
 ascribe to our victims the hateful feelings which must fill them
with<br>
 the hope of revenge; and in spite of every effort of hypocrisy,
our<br>
 tongue or our face makes confession under the rack of some
unexpected<br>
 anguish, as the criminal of old confessed under the hands of
the<br>
 torturer.</p>

<p>"Our children," he went on, to retract the avowal, "turn at
last to be<br>
 our enemies--"</p>

<p>"Father!" Victorin began.</p>

<p>"You dare to interrupt your father!" said the Baron in a voice
of<br>
 thunder, glaring at his son.</p>

<p>"Father, listen to me," Victorin went on in a clear, firm
voice, the<br>
 voice of a puritanical deputy. "I know the respect I owe you too
well<br>
 ever to fail in it, and you will always find me the most
respectful<br>
 and submissive of sons."</p>

<p>Those who are in the habit of attending the sittings of the
Chamber<br>
 will recognize the tactics of parliamentary warfare in these
fine-<br>
 drawn phrases, used to calm the factions while gaining time.</p>

<p>"We are far from being your enemies," his son went on. "I
have<br>
 quarreled with my father-in-law, Monsieur Crevel, for having
rescued<br>
 your notes of hand for sixty thousand francs from Vauvinet, and
that<br>
 money is, beyond doubt, in Madame Marneffe's pocket.--I am not
finding<br>
 fault with you, father," said he, in reply to an impatient
gesture of<br>
 the Baron's; "I simply wish to add my protest to my cousin
Lisbeth's,<br>
 and to point out to you that though my devotion to you as a
father is<br>
 blind and unlimited, my dear father, our pecuniary
resources,<br>
 unfortunately, are very limited."</p>

<p>"Money!" cried the excitable old man, dropping on to a chair,
quite<br>
 crushed by this argument. "From my son!--You shall be repaid
your<br>
 money, sir," said he, rising, and he went to the door.</p>

<p>"Hector!"</p>

<p>At this cry the Baron turned round, suddenly showing his wife
a face<br>
 bathed in tears; she threw her arms round him with the strength
of<br>
 despair.</p>

<p>"Do not leave us thus--do not go away in anger. I have not
said a word<br>
 --not I!"</p>

<p>At this heart-wrung speech the children fell at their father's
feet.</p>

<p>"We all love you," said Hortense.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, as rigid as a statue, watched the group with a
superior smile<br>
 on her lips. Just then Marshal Hulot's voice was heard in
the<br>
 anteroom. The family all felt the importance of secrecy, and the
scene<br>
 suddenly changed. The young people rose, and every one tried to
hide<br>
 all traces of emotion.</p>

<p>A discussion was going on at the door between Mariette and a
soldier,<br>
 who was so persistent that the cook came in.</p>

<p>"Monsieur, a regimental quartermaster, who says he is just
come from<br>
 Algiers, insists on seeing you."</p>

<p>"Tell him to wait."</p>

<p>"Monsieur," said Mariette to her master in an undertone, "he
told me<br>
 to tell you privately that it has to do with your uncle
there."</p>

<p>The Baron started; he believed that the funds had been sent at
last<br>
 which he had been asking for these two months, to pay up his
bills; he<br>
 left the family-party, and hurried out to the anteroom.</p>

<p>"You are Monsieur de Paron Hulot?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Your own self?"</p>

<p>"My own self."</p>

<p>The man, who had been fumbling meanwhile in the lining of his
cap,<br>
 drew out a letter, of which the Baron hastily broke the seal,
and read<br>
 as follows:--</p>

<p>"DEAR NEPHEW,--Far from being able to send you the hundred<br>
 thousand francs you ask of me, my present position is not
tenable<br>
 unless you can take some decisive steps to save me. We are
saddled<br>
 with a public prosecutor who talks goody, and rhodomontades<br>
 nonsense about the management. It is impossible to get the
black-<br>
 chokered pump to hold his tongue. If the War Minister allows<br>
 civilians to feed out of his hand, I am done for. I can trust
the<br>
 bearer; try to get him promoted; he has done us good service.
Do<br>
 not abandon me to the crows!"</p>

<p>This letter was a thunderbolt; the Baron could read in it
the<br>
 intestine warfare between civil and military authorities, which
to<br>
 this day hampers the Government, and he was required to invent
on the<br>
 spot some palliative for the difficulty that stared him in the
face.<br>
 He desired the soldier to come back next day, dismissing him
with<br>
 splendid promises of promotion, and he returned to the
drawing-room.<br>
 "Good-day and good-bye, brother," said he to the
Marshal.--"Good-bye,<br>
 children.--Good-bye, my dear Adeline.--And what are you going to
do,<br>
 Lisbeth?" he asked.</p>

<p>"I?--I am going to keep house for the Marshal, for I must end
my days<br>
 doing what I can for one or another of you."</p>

<p>"Do not leave Valerie till I have seen you again," said Hulot
in his<br>
 cousin's ear.--"Good-bye, Hortense, refractory little puss; try
to be<br>
 reasonable. I have important business to be attended to at once;
we<br>
 will discuss your reconciliation another time. Now, think it
over, my<br>
 child," said he as he kissed her.</p>

<p>And he went away, so evidently uneasy, that his wife and
children felt<br>
 the gravest apprehensions.</p>

<p>"Lisbeth," said the Baroness, "I must find out what is wrong
with<br>
 Hector; I never saw him in such a state. Stay a day or two
longer with<br>
 that woman; he tells her everything, and we can then learn what
has so<br>
 suddenly upset him. Be quite easy; we will arrange your marriage
to<br>
 the Marshal, for it is really necessary."</p>

<p>"I shall never forget the courage you have shown this
morning," said<br>
 Hortense, embracing Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"You have avenged our poor mother," said Victorin.</p>

<p>The Marshal looked on with curiosity at all the display of
affection<br>
 lavished on Lisbeth, who went off to report the scene to
Valerie.</p>

<p>This sketch will enable guileless souls to understand what
various<br>
 mischief Madame Marneffes may do in a family, and the means by
which<br>
 they reach poor virtuous wives apparently so far out of their
ken. And<br>
 then, if we only transfer, in fancy, such doings to the upper
class of<br>
 society about a throne, and if we consider what kings'
mistresses must<br>
 have cost them, we may estimate the debt owed by a nation to
a<br>
 sovereign who sets the example of a decent and domestic
life.</p>

<p>In Paris each ministry is a little town by itself, whence
women are<br>
 banished; but there is just as much detraction and scandal as
though<br>
 the feminine population were admitted there. At the end of
three<br>
 years, Monsieur Marneffe's position was perfectly clear and open
to<br>
 the day, and in every room one and another asked, "Is Marneffe
to be,<br>
 or not to be, Coquet's successor?" Exactly as the question might
have<br>
 been put to the Chamber, "Will the estimates pass or not pass?"
The<br>
 smallest initiative on the part of the board of Management
was<br>
 commented on; everything in Baron Hulot's department was
carefully<br>
 noted. The astute State Councillor had enlisted on his side the
victim<br>
 of Marneffe's promotion, a hard-working clerk, telling him that
if he<br>
 could fill Marneffe's place, he would certainly succeed to it;
he had<br>
 told him that the man was dying. So this clerk was scheming
for<br>
 Marneffe's advancement.</p>

<p>When Hulot went through his anteroom, full of visitors, he
saw<br>
 Marneffe's colorless face in a corner, and sent for him before
any one<br>
 else.</p>

<p>"What do you want of me, my dear fellow?" said the Baron,
disguising<br>
 his anxiety.</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Directeur, I am the laughing-stock of the office,
for it<br>
 has become known that the chief of the clerks has left this
morning<br>
 for a holiday, on the ground of his health. He is to be away a
month.<br>
 Now, we all know what waiting for a month means. You deliver me
over<br>
 to the mockery of my enemies, and it is bad enough to be drummed
upon<br>
 one side; drumming on both at once, monsieur, is apt to burst
the<br>
 drum."</p>

<p>"My dear Marneffe, it takes long patience to gain an end. You
cannot<br>
 be made head-clerk in less than two months, if ever. Just when I
must,<br>
 as far as possible, secure my own position, is not the time to
be<br>
 applying for your promotion, which would raise a scandal."</p>

<p>"If you are broke, I shall never get it," said Marneffe
coolly. "And<br>
 if you get me the place, it will make no difference in the
end."</p>

<p>"Then I am to sacrifice myself for you?" said the Baron.</p>

<p>"If you do not, I shall be much mistaken in you."</p>

<p>"You are too exclusively Marneffe, Monsieur Marneffe," said
Hulot,<br>
 rising and showing the clerk the door.</p>

<p>"I have the honor to wish you good-morning, Monsieur le
Baron," said<br>
 Marneffe humbly.</p>

<p>"What an infamous rascal!" thought the Baron. "This is
uncommonly like<br>
 a summons to pay within twenty-four hours on pain of
distraint."</p>

<p>Two hours later, just when the Baron had been instructing
Claude<br>
 Vignon, whom he was sending to the Ministry of Justice to
obtain<br>
 information as to the judicial authorities under whose
jurisdiction<br>
 Johann Fischer might fall, Reine opened the door of his private
room<br>
 and gave him a note, saying she would wait for the answer.</p>

<p>"Valerie is mad!" said the Baron to himself. "To send Reine!
It is<br>
 enough to compromise us all, and it certainly compromises
that<br>
 dreadful Marneffe's chances of promotion!"</p>

<p>But he dismissed the minister's private secretary, and read
as<br>
 follows:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"Oh, my dear friend, what a scene I have had to endure! Though
you<br>
 have made me happy for three years, I have paid dearly for it!
He<br>
 came in from the office in a rage that made me quake. I knew
he<br>
 was ugly; I have seen him a monster! His four real teeth<br>
 chattered, and he threatened me with his odious presence
without<br>
 respite if I should continue to receive you. My poor, dear
old<br>
 boy, our door is closed against you henceforth. You see my
tears;<br>
 they are dropping on the paper and soaking it; can you read what
I<br>
 write, dear Hector? Oh, to think of never seeing you, of
giving<br>
 you up when I bear in me some of your life, as I flatter myself
I<br>
 have your heart--it is enough to kill me. Think of our
little<br>
 Hector!</p>

<p>"Do not forsake me, but do not disgrace yourself for
Marneffe's<br>
 sake; do not yield to his threats.</p>

<p>"I love you as I have never loved! I remember all the
sacrifices<br>
 you have made for your Valerie; she is not, and never will
be,<br>
 ungrateful; you are, and will ever be, my only husband. Think
no<br>
 more of the twelve hundred francs a year I asked you to settle
on<br>
 the dear little Hector who is to come some months hence; I
will<br>
 not cost you anything more. And besides, my money will always
be<br>
 yours.</p>

<p><br>
 "Oh, if you only loved me as I love you, my Hector, you
would<br>
 retire on your pension; we should both take leave of our
family,<br>
 our worries, our surroundings, so full of hatred, and we should
go<br>
 to live with Lisbeth in some pretty country place--in Brittany,
or<br>
 wherever you like. There we should see nobody, and we should
be<br>
 happy away from the world. Your pension and the little property
I<br>
 can call my own would be enough for us. You say you are
jealous;<br>
 well, you would then have your Valerie entirely devoted to
her<br>
 Hector, and you would never have to talk in a loud voice, as
you<br>
 did the other day. I shall have but one child--ours--you may
be<br>
 sure, my dearly loved old veteran.</p>

<p>"You cannot conceive of my fury, for you cannot know how
he<br>
 treated me, and the foul words he vomited on your Valerie.
Such<br>
 words would disgrace my paper; a woman such as I
am--Montcornet's<br>
 daughter--ought never to have heard one of them in her life.
I<br>
 only wish you had been there, that I might have punished him
with<br>
 the sight of the mad passion I felt for you. My father would
have<br>
 killed the wretch; I can only do as women do--love you
devotedly!<br>
 Indeed, my love, in the state of exasperation in which I am,
I<br>
 cannot possibly give up seeing you. I must positively see you,
in<br>
 secret, every day! That is what we are, we women. Your
resentment<br>
 is mine. If you love me, I implore you, do not let him be<br>
 promoted; leave him to die a second-class clerk.</p>

<p>"At this moment I have lost my head; I still seem to hear
him<br>
 abusing me. Betty, who had meant to leave me, has pity on me,
and<br>
 will stay for a few days.</p>

<p>"My dear kind love, I do not know yet what is to be done. I
see<br>
 nothing for it but flight. I always delight in the country--<br>
 Brittany, Languedoc, what you will, so long as I am free to
love<br>
 you. Poor dear, how I pity you! Forced now to go back to your
old<br>
 Adeline, to that lachrymal urn--for, as he no doubt told you,
the<br>
 monster means to watch me night and day; he spoke of a
detective!<br>
 Do not come here, he is capable of anything I know, since he
could<br>
 make use of me for the basest purposes of speculation. I only
wish<br>
 I could return you all the things I have received from your<br>
 generosity.</p>

<p>"Ah! my kind Hector, I may have flirted, and have seemed to
you to<br>
 be fickle, but you did not know your Valerie; she liked to
tease<br>
 you, but she loves you better than any one in the world.</p>

<p>"He cannot prevent your coming to see your cousin; I will
arrange<br>
 with her that we have speech with each other. My dear old
boy,<br>
 write me just a line, pray, to comfort me in the absence of
your<br>
 dear self. (Oh, I would give one of my hands to have you by me
on<br>
 our sofa!) A letter will work like a charm; write me
something<br>
 full of your noble soul; I will return your note to you, for
I<br>
 must be cautious; I should not know where to hide it, he pokes
his<br>
 nose in everywhere. In short, comfort your Valerie, your
little<br>
 wife, the mother of your child.--To think of my having to write
to<br>
 you, when I used to see you every day. As I say to Lisbeth, 'I
did<br>
 not know how happy I was.' A thousand kisses, dear boy. Be true
to<br>
 your</p>

<p>"VALERIE."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 "And tears!" said Hulot to himself as he finished this letter,
"tears<br>
 which have blotted out her name.--How is she?" said he to
Reine.</p>

<p>"Madame is in bed; she has dreadful spasms," replied Reine.
"She had a<br>
 fit of hysterics that twisted her like a withy round a faggot.
It came<br>
 on after writing. It comes of crying so much. She heard
monsieur's<br>
 voice on the stairs."</p>

<p><br>
 The Baron in his distress wrote the following note on office
paper<br>
 with a printed heading:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"Be quite easy, my angel, he will die a second-class
clerk!--Your<br>
 idea is admirable; we will go and live far from Paris, where
we<br>
 shall be happy with our little Hector; I will retire on my<br>
 pension, and I shall be sure to find some good appointment on
a<br>
 railway.</p>

<p>"Ah, my sweet friend, I feel so much the younger for your
letter!<br>
 I shall begin life again and make a fortune, you will see, for
our<br>
 dear little one. As I read your letter, a thousand times
more<br>
 ardent than those of the <i>Nouvelle Heloise</i>, it worked a
miracle!<br>
 I had not believed it possible that I could love you more.
This<br>
 evening, at Lisbeth's you will see</p>

<p>"YOUR HECTOR, FOR LIFE."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 Reine carried off this reply, the first letter the Baron had
written<br>
 to his "sweet friend." Such emotions to some extent
counterbalanced<br>
 the disasters growling in the distance; but the Baron, at this
moment<br>
 believing he could certainly avert the blows aimed at his
uncle,<br>
 Johann Fischer, thought only of the deficit.</p>

<p><br>
 One of the characteristics of the Bonapartist temperament is a
firm<br>
 belief in the power of the sword, and confidence in the
superiority of<br>
 the military over civilians. Hulot laughed to scorn the
Public<br>
 Prosecutor in Algiers, where the War Office is supreme. Man is
always<br>
 what he has once been. How can the officers of the Imperial
Guard<br>
 forget that time was when the mayors of the largest towns in
the<br>
 Empire and the Emperor's prefects, Emperors themselves on a
minute<br>
 scale, would come out to meet the Imperial Guard, to pay
their<br>
 respects on the borders of the Departments through which it
passed,<br>
 and to do it, in short, the homage due to sovereigns?</p>

<p>At half-past four the baron went straight to Madame
Marneffe's; his<br>
 heart beat as high as a young man's as he went upstairs, for he
was<br>
 asking himself this question, "Shall I see her? or shall I
not?"</p>

<p>How was he now to remember the scene of the morning when his
weeping<br>
 children had knelt at his feet? Valerie's note, enshrined for
ever in<br>
 a thin pocket-book over his heart, proved to him that she loved
him<br>
 more than the most charming of young men.</p>

<p>Having rung, the unhappy visitor heard within the shuffling
slippers<br>
 and vexatious scraping cough of the detestable master. Marneffe
opened<br>
 the door, but only to put himself into an attitude and point to
the<br>
 stairs, exactly as Hulot had shown him the door of his private
room.</p>

<p>"You are too exclusively Hulot, Monsieur Hulot!" said he.</p>

<p>The Baron tried to pass him, Marneffe took a pistol out of his
pocket<br>
 and cocked it.</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Baron," said he, "when a man is as vile as I
am--for you<br>
 think me very vile, don't you?--he would be the meanest
galley-slave<br>
 if he did not get the full benefit of his betrayed honor.--You
are for<br>
 war; it will be hot work and no quarter. Come here no more, and
do not<br>
 attempt to get past me. I have given the police notice of my
position<br>
 with regard to you."</p>

<p>And taking advantage of Hulot's amazement, he pushed him out
and shut<br>
 the door.</p>

<p>"What a low scoundrel!" said Hulot to himself, as he went
upstairs to<br>
 Lisbeth. "I understand her letter now. Valerie and I will go
away from<br>
 Paris. Valerie is wholly mine for the remainder of my days; she
will<br>
 close my eyes."</p>

<p>Lisbeth was out. Madame Olivier told the Baron that she had
gone to<br>
 his wife's house, thinking that she would find him there.</p>

<p>"Poor thing! I should never have expected her to be so sharp
as she<br>
 was this morning," thought Hulot, recalling Lisbeth's behavior
as he<br>
 made his way from the Rue Vanneau to the Rue Plumet.</p>

<p>As he turned the corner of the Rue Vanneau and the Rue de
Babylone, he<br>
 looked back at the Eden whence Hymen had expelled him with the
sword<br>
 of the law. Valerie, at her window, was watching his departure;
as he<br>
 glanced up, she waved her handkerchief, but the rascally
Marneffe hit<br>
 his wife's cap and dragged her violently away from the window. A
tear<br>
 rose to the great official's eye.</p>

<p>"Oh! to be so well loved! To see a woman so ill used, and to
be so<br>
 nearly seventy years old!" thought he.</p>

<p>Lisbeth had come to give the family the good news. Adeline
and<br>
 Hortense had already heard that the Baron, not choosing to
compromise<br>
 himself in the eyes of the whole office by appointing Marneffe
to the<br>
 first class, would be turned from the door by the
Hulot-hating<br>
 husband. Adeline, very happy, had ordered a dinner that her
Hector was<br>
 to like better than any of Valerie's; and Lisbeth, in her
devotion,<br>
 was helping Mariette to achieve this difficult result. Cousin
Betty<br>
 was the idol of the hour. Mother and daughter kissed her hands,
and<br>
 had told her with touching delight that the Marshal consented to
have<br>
 her as his housekeeper.</p>

<p>"And from that, my dear, there is but one step to becoming his
wife!"<br>
 said Adeline.</p>

<p>"In fact, he did not say no when Victorin mentioned it," added
the<br>
 Countess.</p>

<p>The Baron was welcomed home with such charming proofs of
affection, so<br>
 pathetically overflowing with love, that he was fain to conceal
his<br>
 troubles.</p>

<p>Marshal Hulot came to dinner. After dinner, Hector did not go
out.<br>
 Victorin and his wife joined them, and they made up a
rubber.</p>

<p>"It is a long time, Hector, said the Marshal gravely, "since
you gave<br>
 us the treat of such an evening."</p>

<p>This speech from the old soldier, who spoiled his brother
though he<br>
 thus implicitly blamed him, made a deep impression. It showed
how wide<br>
 and deep were the wounds in a heart where all the woes he had
divined<br>
 had found an echo. At eight o'clock the Baron insisted on
seeing<br>
 Lisbeth home, promising to return.</p>

<p>"Do you know, Lisbeth, he ill-treats her!" said he in the
street. "Oh,<br>
 I never loved her so well!"</p>

<p>"I never imagined that Valerie loved you so well," replied
Lisbeth.<br>
 "She is frivolous and a coquette, she loves to have attentions
paid<br>
 her, and to have the comedy of love-making performed for her, as
she<br>
 says; but you are her only real attachment."</p>

<p>"What message did she send me?"</p>

<p>"Why, this," said Lisbeth. "She has, as you know, been on
intimate<br>
 terms with Crevel. You must owe her no grudge, for that, in
fact, is<br>
 what has raised her above utter poverty for the rest of her
life; but<br>
 she detests him, and matters are nearly at an end.--Well, she
has kept<br>
 the key of some rooms--"</p>

<p>"Rue du Dauphin!" cried the thrice-blest Baron. "If it were
for that<br>
 alone, I would overlook Crevel.--I have been there; I know."</p>

<p>"Here, then, is the key," said Lisbeth. "Have another made
from it in<br>
 the course of to-morrow--two if you can."</p>

<p>"And then," said Hulot eagerly.</p>

<p>"Well, I will dine at your house again to-morrow; you must
give me<br>
 back Valerie's key, for old Crevel might ask her to return it to
him,<br>
 and you can meet her there the day after; then you can decide
what<br>
 your facts are to be. You will be quite safe, as there are two
ways<br>
 out. If by chance Crevel, who is <i>Regence</i> in his habits,
as he is<br>
 fond of saying, should come in by the side street, you could go
out<br>
 through the shop, or <i>vice versa.</i></p>

<p>"You owe all this to me, you old villain; now what will you do
for<br>
 me?"</p>

<p>"Whatever you want."</p>

<p>"Then you will not oppose my marrying your brother?"</p>

<p>"You! the Marechale Hulot, the Comtesse de Frozheim?" cried
Hector,<br>
 startled.</p>

<p>"Well, Adeline is a Baroness!" retorted Betty in a vicious
and<br>
 formidable tone. "Listen to me, you old libertine. You know
how<br>
 matters stand; your family may find itself starving in the
gutter--"</p>

<p>"That is what I dread," said Hulot in dismay.</p>

<p>"And if your brother were to die, who would maintain your wife
and<br>
 daughter? The widow of a Marshal gets at least six thousand
francs<br>
 pension, doesn't she? Well, then, I wish to marry to secure
bread for<br>
 your wife and daughter--old dotard!"</p>

<p>"I had not seen it in that light!" said the Baron. "I will
talk to my<br>
 brother--for we are sure of you.--Tell my angel that my life is
hers."</p>

<p>And the Baron, having seen Lisbeth go into the house in the
Rue<br>
 Vanneau, went back to his whist and stayed at home. The Baroness
was<br>
 at the height of happiness; her husband seemed to be returning
to<br>
 domestic habits; for about a fortnight he went to his office at
nine<br>
 every morning, he came in to dinner at six, and spent the
evening with<br>
 his family. He twice took Adeline and Hortense to the play. The
mother<br>
 and daughter paid for three thanksgiving masses, and prayed to
God to<br>
 suffer them to keep the husband and father He had restored to
them.</p>

<p>One evening Victorin Hulot, seeing his father retire for the
night,<br>
 said to his mother:</p>

<p>"Well, we are at any rate so far happy that my father has come
back to<br>
 us. My wife and I shall never regret our capital if only this
lasts--"</p>

<p>"Your father is nearly seventy," said the Baroness. "He still
thinks<br>
 of Madame Marneffe, that I can see; but he will forget her in
time. A<br>
 passion for women is not like gambling, or speculation, or
avarice;<br>
 there is an end to it."</p>

<p>But Adeline, still beautiful in spite of her fifty years and
her<br>
 sorrows, in this was mistaken. Profligates, men whom Nature has
gifted<br>
 with the precious power of loving beyond the limits ordinarily
set to<br>
 love, rarely are as old as their age.</p>

<p>During this relapse into virtue Baron Hulot had been three
times to<br>
 the Rue du Dauphin, and had certainly not been the man of
seventy. His<br>
 rekindled passion made him young again, and he would have
sacrificed<br>
 his honor to Valerie, his family, his all, without a regret.
But<br>
 Valerie, now completely altered, never mentioned money, not even
the<br>
 twelve hundred francs a year to be settled on their son; on
the<br>
 contrary, she offered him money, she loved Hulot as a woman of
six-<br>
 and-thirty loves a handsome law-student--a poor, poetical,
ardent boy.<br>
 And the hapless wife fancied she had reconquered her dear
Hector!</p>

<p>The fourth meeting between this couple had been agreed upon at
the end<br>
 of the third, exactly as formerly in Italian theatres the play
was<br>
 announced for the next night. The hour fixed was nine in the
morning.<br>
 On the next day when the happiness was due for which the amorous
old<br>
 man had resigned himself to domestic rules, at about eight in
the<br>
 morning, Reine came and asked to see the Baron. Hulot, fearing
some<br>
 catastrophe, went out to speak with Reine, who would not come
into the<br>
 anteroom. The faithful waiting-maid gave him the following
note:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"DEAR OLD MAN,--Do not go to the Rue du Dauphin. Our incubus
is<br>
 ill, and I must nurse him; but be there this evening at
nine.<br>
 Crevel is at Corbeil with Monsieur Lebas; so I am sure he
will<br>
 bring no princess to his little palace. I have made
arrangements<br>
 here to be free for the night and get back before Marneffe
is<br>
 awake. Answer me as to all this, for perhaps your long elegy of
a<br>
 wife no longer allows you your liberty as she did. I am told
she<br>
 is still so handsome that you might play me false, you are such
a<br>
 gay dog! Burn this note; I am suspicious of every one."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Hulot wrote this scrap in reply:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"MY LOVE,--As I have told you, my wife has not for
five-and-twenty<br>
 years interfered with my pleasures. For you I would give up
a<br>
 hundred Adelines.--I will be in the Crevel sanctum at nine
this<br>
 evening awaiting my divinity. Oh that your clerk might soon
die!<br>
 We should part no more. And this is the dearest wish of</p>

<p>"YOUR HECTOR."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 That evening the Baron told his wife that he had business with
the<br>
 Minister at Saint-Cloud, that he would come home at about four
or five<br>
 in the morning; and he went to the Rue du Dauphin. It was
towards the<br>
 end of the month of June.</p>

<p><br>
 Few men have in the course of their life known really the
dreadful<br>
 sensation of going to their death; those who have returned from
the<br>
 foot of the scaffold may be easily counted. But some have had a
vivid<br>
 experience of it in dreams; they have gone through it all, to
the<br>
 sensation of the knife at their throat, at the moment when
waking and<br>
 daylight come to release them.--Well, the sensation to which
the<br>
 Councillor of State was a victim at five in the morning in
Crevel's<br>
 handsome and elegant bed, was immeasurably worse than that of
feeling<br>
 himself bound to the fatal block in the presence of ten
thousand<br>
 spectators looking at you with twenty thousand sparks of
fire.</p>

<p>Valerie was asleep in a graceful attitude. She was lovely, as
a woman<br>
 is who is lovely enough to look so even in sleep. It is art
invading<br>
 nature; in short, a living picture.</p>

<p>In his horizontal position the Baron's eyes were but three
feet above<br>
 the floor. His gaze, wandering idly, as that of a man who is
just<br>
 awake and collecting his ideas, fell on a door painted with
flowers by<br>
 Jan, an artist disdainful of fame. The Baron did not indeed see
twenty<br>
 thousand flaming eyes, like the man condemned to death; he saw
but<br>
 one, of which the shaft was really more piercing than the
thousands on<br>
 the Public Square.</p>

<p>Now this sensation, far rarer in the midst of enjoyment even
than that<br>
 of a man condemned to death, was one for which many a
splenetic<br>
 Englishman would certainly pay a high price. The Baron lay
there,<br>
 horizontal still, and literally bathed in cold sweat. He tried
to<br>
 doubt the fact; but this murderous eye had a voice. A sound
of<br>
 whispering was heard through the door.</p>

<p>"So long as it is nobody but Crevel playing a trick on me!"
said the<br>
 Baron to himself, only too certain of an intruder in the
temple.</p>

<p>The door was opened. The Majesty of the French Law, which in
all<br>
 documents follows next to the King, became visible in the person
of a<br>
 worthy little police-officer supported by a tall Justice of the
Peace,<br>
 both shown in by Monsieur Marneffe. The police functionary,
rooted in<br>
 shoes of which the straps were tied together with flapping bows,
ended<br>
 at top in a yellow skull almost bare of hair, and a face
betraying him<br>
 as a wide-awake, cheerful, and cunning dog, from whom Paris life
had<br>
 no secrets. His eyes, though garnished with spectacles, pierced
the<br>
 glasses with a keen mocking glance. The Justice of the Peace,
a<br>
 retired attorney, and an old admirer of the fair sex, envied
the<br>
 delinquent.</p>

<p>"Pray excuse the strong measures required by our office,
Monsieur le<br>
 Baron!" said the constable; "we are acting for the plaintiff.
The<br>
 Justice of the Peace is here to authorize the visitation of
the<br>
 premises.--I know who you are, and who the lady is who is
accused."</p>

<p>Valerie opened her astonished eyes, gave such a shriek as
actresses<br>
 use to depict madness on the stage, writhed in convulsions on
the bed,<br>
 like a witch of the Middle Ages in her sulphur-colored frock on
a bed<br>
 of faggots.</p>

<p>"Death, and I am ready! my dear Hector--but a police
court?--Oh!<br>
 never."</p>

<p>With one bound she passed the three spectators and crouched
under the<br>
 little writing-table, hiding her face in her hands.</p>

<p>"Ruin! Death!" she cried.</p>

<p>"Monsieur," said Marneffe to Hulot, "if Madame Marneffe goes
mad, you<br>
 are worse than a profligate; you will be a murderer."</p>

<p>What can a man do, what can he say, when he is discovered in a
bed<br>
 which is not his, even on the score of hiring, with a woman who
is no<br>
 more his than the bed is?--Well, this:</p>

<p>"Monsieur the Justice of the Peace, Monsieur the Police
Officer," said<br>
 the Baron with some dignity, "be good enough to take proper care
of<br>
 that unhappy woman, whose reason seems to me to be in
danger.--You can<br>
 harangue me afterwards. The doors are locked, no doubt; you need
not<br>
 fear that she will get away, or I either, seeing the costume we
wear."</p>

<p>The two functionaries bowed to the magnate's injunctions.</p>

<p>"You, come here, miserable cur!" said Hulot in a low voice
to<br>
 Marneffe, taking him by the arm and drawing him closer. "It is
not I,<br>
 but you, who will be the murderer! You want to be head-clerk of
your<br>
 room and officer of the Legion of Honor?"</p>

<p>"That in the first place, Chief!" replied Marneffe, with a
bow.</p>

<p>"You shall be all that, only soothe your wife and dismiss
these<br>
 fellows."</p>

<p>"Nay, nay!" said Marneffe knowingly. "These gentlemen must
draw up<br>
 their report as eyewitnesses to the fact; without that, the
chief<br>
 evidence in my case, where should I be? The higher official
ranks are<br>
 chokeful of rascalities. You have done me out of my wife, and
you have<br>
 not promoted me, Monsieur le Baron; I give you only two days to
get<br>
 out of the scrape. Here are some letters--"</p>

<p>"Some letters!" interrupted Hulot.</p>

<p>"Yes; letters which prove that you are the father of the child
my wife<br>
 expects to give birth to.--You understand? And you ought to
settle on<br>
 my son a sum equal to what he will lose through this bastard.
But I<br>
 will be reasonable; this does not distress me, I have no mania
for<br>
 paternity myself. A hundred louis a year will satisfy me. By
to-morrow<br>
 I must be Monsieur Coquet's successor and see my name on the
list for<br>
 promotion in the Legion of Honor at the July fetes, or
else--the<br>
 documentary evidence and my charge against you will be laid
before the<br>
 Bench. I am not so hard to deal with after all, you see."</p>

<p>"Bless me, and such a pretty woman!" said the Justice of the
Peace to<br>
 the police constable. "What a loss to the world if she should go
mad!"</p>

<p>"She is not mad," said the constable sententiously. The police
is<br>
 always the incarnation of scepticism.--"Monsieur le Baron Hulot
has<br>
 been caught by a trick," he added, loud enough for Valerie to
hear<br>
 him.</p>

<p>Valerie shot a flash from her eye which would have killed him
on the<br>
 spot if looks could effect the vengeance they express. The
police-<br>
 officer smiled; he had laid a snare, and the woman had fallen
into it.<br>
 Marneffe desired his wife to go into the other room and clothe
herself<br>
 decently, for he and the Baron had come to an agreement on all
points,<br>
 and Hulot fetched his dressing-gown and came out again.</p>

<p>"Gentlemen," said he to the two officials, "I need not impress
on you<br>
 to be secret."</p>

<p>The functionaries bowed.</p>

<p>The police-officer rapped twice on the door; his clerk came
in, sat<br>
 down at the "bonheur-du-jour," and wrote what the constable
dictated<br>
 to him in an undertone. Valerie still wept vehemently. When she
was<br>
 dressed, Hulot went into the other room and put on his
clothes.<br>
 Meanwhile the report was written.</p>

<p>Marneffe then wanted to take his wife home; but Hulot,
believing that<br>
 he saw her for the last time, begged the favor of being allowed
to<br>
 speak with her.</p>

<p>"Monsieur, your wife has cost me dear enough for me to be
allowed to<br>
 say good-bye to her--in the presence of you all, of course."</p>

<p>Valerie went up to Hulot, and he whispered in her ear:</p>

<p>"There is nothing left for us but to fly, but how can we
correspond?<br>
 We have been betrayed--"</p>

<p>"Through Reine," she answered. "But my dear friend, after this
scandal<br>
 we can never meet again. I am disgraced. Besides, you will
hear<br>
 dreadful things about me--you will believe them--"</p>

<p>The Baron made a gesture of denial.</p>

<p>"You will believe them, and I can thank God for that, for then
perhaps<br>
 you will not regret me."</p>

<p>"He will <i>not</i> die a second-class clerk!" said Marneffe
to Hulot, as<br>
 he led his wife away, saying roughly, "Come, madame; if I am
foolish<br>
 to you, I do not choose to be a fool to others."</p>

<p>Valerie left the house, Crevel's Eden, with a last glance at
the<br>
 Baron, so cunning that he thought she adored him. The Justice of
the<br>
 Peace gave Madame Marneffe his arm to the hackney coach with
a<br>
 flourish of gallantry. The Baron, who was required to witness
the<br>
 report, remained quite bewildered, alone with the
police-officer. When<br>
 the Baron had signed, the officer looked at him keenly, over
his<br>
 glasses.</p>

<p>"You are very sweet on the little lady, Monsieur le
Baron?"</p>

<p>"To my sorrow, as you see."</p>

<p>"Suppose that she does not care for you?" the man went on,
"that she<br>
 is deceiving you?"</p>

<p>"I have long known that, monsieur--here, in this very spot,
Monsieur<br>
 Crevel and I told each other----"</p>

<p>"Oh! Then you knew that you were in Monsieur le Maire's
private<br>
 snuggery?"</p>

<p>"Perfectly."</p>

<p>The constable lightly touched his hat with a respectful
gesture.</p>

<p>"You are very much in love," said he. "I say no more. I
respect an<br>
 inveterate passion, as a doctor respects an inveterate
complaint.--I<br>
 saw Monsieur de Nucingen, the banker, attacked in the same
way--"</p>

<p>"He is a friend of mine," said the Baron. "Many a time have I
supped<br>
 with his handsome Esther. She was worth the two million francs
she<br>
 cost him."</p>

<p>"And more," said the officer. "That caprice of the old Baron's
cost<br>
 four persons their lives. Oh! such passions as these are like
the<br>
 cholera!"</p>

<p>"What had you to say to me?" asked the Baron, who took this
indirect<br>
 warning very ill.</p>

<p>"Oh! why should I deprive you of your illusions?" replied the
officer.<br>
 "Men rarely have any left at your age!"</p>

<p>"Rid me of them!" cried the Councillor.</p>

<p>"You will curse the physician later," replied the officer,
smiling.</p>

<p>"I beg of you, monsieur."</p>

<p>"Well, then, that woman was in collusion with her
husband."</p>

<p>"Oh!----"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, and so it is in two cases out of every ten. Oh! we
know it<br>
 well."</p>

<p>"What proof have you of such a conspiracy?"</p>

<p>"In the first place, the husband!" said the other, with the
calm<br>
 acumen of a surgeon practised in unbinding wounds. "Mean
speculation<br>
 is stamped in every line of that villainous face. But you, no
doubt,<br>
 set great store by a certain letter written by that woman with
regard<br>
 to the child?"</p>

<p>"So much so, that I always have it about me," replied Hulot,
feeling<br>
 in his breast-pocket for the little pocketbook which he always
kept<br>
 there.</p>

<p>"Leave your pocketbook where it is," said the man, as crushing
as a<br>
 thunder-clap. "Here is the letter.--I now know all I want to
know.<br>
 Madame Marneffe, of course, was aware of what that
pocketbook<br>
 contained?"</p>

<p>"She alone in the world."</p>

<p>"So I supposed.--Now for the proof you asked for of her
collusion with<br>
 her husband."</p>

<p>"Let us hear!" said the Baron, still incredulous.</p>

<p>"When we came in here, Monsieur le Baron, that wretched
creature<br>
 Marneffe led the way, and he took up this letter, which his
wife, no<br>
 doubt, had placed on this writing-table," and he pointed to
the<br>
 <i>bonheur-du-jour</i>. "That evidently was the spot agreed upon
by the<br>
 couple, in case she should succeed in stealing the letter while
you<br>
 were asleep; for this letter, as written to you by the lady,
is,<br>
 combined with those you wrote to her, decisive evidence in a
police-<br>
 court."</p>

<p><br>
 He showed Hulot the note that Reine had delivered to him in
his<br>
 private room at the office.</p>

<p>"It is one of the documents in the case," said the
police-agent;<br>
 "return it to me, monsieur."</p>

<p>"Well, monsieur," replied Hulot with bitter expression, "that
woman is<br>
 profligacy itself in fixed ratios. I am certain at this moment
that<br>
 she has three lovers."</p>

<p>"That is perfectly evident," said the officer. "Oh, they are
not all<br>
 on the streets! When a woman follows that trade in a carriage
and a<br>
 drawing-room, and her own house, it is not a case for francs
and<br>
 centimes, Monsieur le Baron. Mademoiselle Esther, of whom you
spoke,<br>
 and who poisoned herself, made away with millions.--If you will
take<br>
 my advice, you will get out of it, monsieur. This last little
game<br>
 will have cost you dear. That scoundrel of a husband has the law
on<br>
 his side. And indeed, but for me, that little woman would have
caught<br>
 you again!"</p>

<p>"Thank you, monsieur," said the Baron, trying to maintain his
dignity.</p>

<p>"Now we will lock up; the farce is played out, and you can
send your<br>
 key to Monsieur the Mayor."</p>

<p>Hulot went home in a state of dejection bordering on
helplessness, and<br>
 sunk in the gloomiest thoughts. He woke his noble and saintly
wife,<br>
 and poured into her heart the history of the past three years,
sobbing<br>
 like a child deprived of a toy. This confession from an old man
young<br>
 in feeling, this frightful and heart-rending narrative, while
it<br>
 filled Adeline with pity, also gave her the greatest joy; she
thanked<br>
 Heaven for this last catastrophe, for in fancy she saw the
husband<br>
 settled at last in the bosom of his family.</p>

<p>"Lisbeth was right," said Madame Hulot gently and without any
useless<br>
 recrimination, "she told us how it would be."</p>

<p>"Yes. If only I had listened to her, instead of flying into a
rage,<br>
 that day when I wanted poor Hortense to go home rather than
compromise<br>
 the reputation of that--Oh! my dear Adeline, we must save
Wenceslas.<br>
 He is up to his chin in that mire!"</p>

<p>"My poor old man, the respectable middle-classes have turned
out no<br>
 better than the actresses," said Adeline, with a smile.</p>

<p>The Baroness was alarmed at the change in her Hector; when she
saw him<br>
 so unhappy, ailing, crushed under his weight of woes, she was
all<br>
 heart, all pity, all love; she would have shed her blood to make
Hulot<br>
 happy.</p>

<p>"Stay with us, my dear Hector. Tell me what is it that such
women do<br>
 to attract you so powerfully. I too will try. Why have you not
taught<br>
 me to be what you want? Am I deficient in intelligence? Men
still<br>
 think me handsome enough to court my favor."</p>

<p>Many a married woman, attached to her duty and to her husband,
may<br>
 here pause to ask herself why strong and affectionate men, so
tender-<br>
 hearted to the Madame Marneffes, do not take their wives for
the<br>
 object of their fancies and passions, especially wives like
the<br>
 Baronne Adeline Hulot.</p>

<p>This is, indeed, one of the most recondite mysteries of human
nature.<br>
 Love, which is debauch of reason, the strong and austere joy of
a<br>
 lofty soul, and pleasure, the vulgar counterfeit sold in the
market-<br>
 place, are two aspects of the same thing. The woman who can
satisfy<br>
 both these devouring appetites is as rare in her sex as a
great<br>
 general, a great writer, a great artist, a great inventor in a
nation.<br>
 A man of superior intellect or an idiot--a Hulot or a
Crevel--equally<br>
 crave for the ideal and for enjoyment; all alike go in search of
the<br>
 mysterious compound, so rare that at last it is usually found to
be a<br>
 work in two volumes. This craving is a depraved impulse due
to<br>
 society.</p>

<p>Marriage, no doubt, must be accepted as a tie; it is life,
with its<br>
 duties and its stern sacrifices on both parts equally.
Libertines, who<br>
 seek for hidden treasure, are as guilty as other evil-doers who
are<br>
 more hardly dealt with than they. These reflections are not a
mere<br>
 veneer of moralizing; they show the reason of many
unexplained<br>
 misfortunes. But, indeed, this drama points its own moral--or
morals,<br>
 for they are of many kinds.</p>

<p>The Baron presently went to call on the Marshal Prince de
Wissembourg,<br>
 whose powerful patronage was now his only chance. Having dwelt
under<br>
 his protection for five-and-thirty years, he was a visitor at
all<br>
 hours, and would be admitted to his rooms as soon as he was
up.</p>

<p>"Ah! How are you, my dear Hector?" said the great and worthy
leader.<br>
 "What is the matter? You look anxious. And yet the session is
ended.<br>
 One more over! I speak of that now as I used to speak of a
campaign.<br>
 And indeed I believe the newspapers nowadays speak of the
sessions as<br>
 parliamentary campaigns."</p>

<p>"We have been in difficulties, I must confess, Marshal; but
the times<br>
 are hard!" said Hulot. "It cannot be helped; the world was made
so.<br>
 Every phase has its own drawbacks. The worst misfortunes in the
year<br>
 1841 is that neither the King nor the ministers are free to act
as<br>
 Napoleon was."</p>

<p>The Marshal gave Hulot one of those eagle flashes which in its
pride,<br>
 clearness, and perspicacity showed that, in spite of years, that
lofty<br>
 soul was still upright and vigorous.</p>

<p>"You want me to so something for you?" said he, in a hearty
tone.</p>

<p>"I find myself under the necessity of applying to you for
the<br>
 promotion of one of my second clerks to the head of a room--as
a<br>
 personal favor to myself--and his advancement to be officer of
the<br>
 Legion of Honor."</p>

<p>"What is his name?" said the Marshal, with a look like a
lightning<br>
 flash.</p>

<p>"Marneffe."</p>

<p>"He has a pretty wife; I saw her on the occasion of your
daughter's<br>
 marriage.--If Roger--but Roger is away!--Hector, my boy, this
is<br>
 concerned with your pleasures. What, you still indulge--? Well,
you<br>
 are a credit to the old Guard. That is what comes of having been
in<br>
 the Commissariat; you have reserves!--But have nothing to do
with this<br>
 little job, my dear boy; it is too strong of the petticoat to be
good<br>
 business."</p>

<p>"No, Marshal; it is bad business, for the police courts have a
finger<br>
 in it. Would you like to see me go there?"</p>

<p>"The devil!" said the Prince uneasily. "Go on!"</p>

<p>"Well, I am in the predicament of a trapped fox. You have
always been<br>
 so kind to me, that you will, I am sure, condescend to help me
out of<br>
 the shameful position in which I am placed."</p>

<p>Hulot related his misadventures, as wittily and as lightly as
he<br>
 could.</p>

<p>"And you, Prince, will you allow my brother to die of grief, a
man you<br>
 love so well; or leave one of your staff in the War Office,
a<br>
 Councillor of State, to live in disgrace. This Marneffe is a
wretched<br>
 creature; he can be shelved in two or three years."</p>

<p>"How you talk of two or three years, my dear fellow!" said
the<br>
 Marshal.</p>

<p>"But, Prince, the Imperial Guard is immortal."</p>

<p>"I am the last of the first batch of Marshals," said the
Prince.<br>
 "Listen, Hector. You do not know the extent of my attachment to
you;<br>
 you shall see. On the day when I retire from office, we will
go<br>
 together. But you are not a Deputy, my friend. Many men want
your<br>
 place; but for me, you would be out of it by this time. Yes, I
have<br>
 fought many a pitched battle to keep you in it.--Well, I grant
you<br>
 your two requests; it would be too bad to see you riding the bar
at<br>
 your age and in the position you hold. But you stretch your
credit a<br>
 little too far. If this appointment gives rise to discussion, we
shall<br>
 not be held blameless. I can laugh at such things; but you will
find<br>
 it a thorn under your feet. And the next session will see
your<br>
 dismissal. Your place is held out as a bait to five or six
influential<br>
 men, and you have been enabled to keep it solely by the force of
my<br>
 arguments. I tell you, on the day when you retire, there will be
five<br>
 malcontents to one happy man; whereas, by keeping you hanging on
by a<br>
 thread for two or three years, we shall secure all six votes.
There<br>
 was a great laugh at the Council meeting; the Veteran of the
Old<br>
 Guard, as they say, was becoming desperately wide awake in<br>
 parliamentary tactics! I am frank with you.--And you are growing
gray;<br>
 you are a happy man to be able to get into such difficulties as
these!<br>
 How long is it since I--Lieutenant Cottin--had a mistress?"</p>

<p>He rang the bell.</p>

<p>"That police report must be destroyed," he added.</p>

<p>"Monseigneur, you are as a father to me! I dared not mention
my<br>
 anxiety on that point."</p>

<p>"I still wish I had Roger here," cried the Prince, as
Mitouflet, his<br>
 groom of the chambers, came in. "I was just going to send for
him!--<br>
 You may go, Mitouflet.--Go you, my dear old fellow, go and have
the<br>
 nomination made out; I will sign it. At the same time, that
low<br>
 schemer will not long enjoy the fruit of his crimes. He will
be<br>
 sharply watched, and drummed out of the regiment for the
smallest<br>
 fault.--You are saved this time, my dear Hector; take care for
the<br>
 future. Do not exhaust your friends' patience. You shall have
the<br>
 nomination this morning, and your man shall get his promotion in
the<br>
 Legion of Honor.--How old are you now?"</p>

<p>"Within three months of seventy."</p>

<p>"What a scapegrace!" said the Prince, laughing. "It is you who
deserve<br>
 a promotion, but, by thunder! we are not under Louis XV.!"</p>

<p>Such is the sense of comradeship that binds the glorious
survivors of<br>
 the Napoleonic phalanx, that they always feel as if they were in
camp<br>
 together, and bound to stand together through thick and
thin.</p>

<p>"One more favor such as this," Hulot reflected as he crossed
the<br>
 courtyard, "and I am done for!"</p>

<p>The luckless official went to Baron de Nucingen, to whom he
now owed a<br>
 mere trifle, and succeeded in borrowing forty thousand francs,
on his<br>
 salary pledged for two years more; the banker stipulated that in
the<br>
 event of Hulot's retirement on his pension, the whole of it
should be<br>
 devoted to the repayment of the sum borrowed till the capital
and<br>
 interest were all cleared off.</p>

<p>This new bargain, like the first, was made in the name of
Vauvinet, to<br>
 whom the Baron signed notes of hand to the amount of twelve
thousand<br>
 francs.</p>

<p>On the following day, the fateful police report, the husband's
charge,<br>
 the letters--all the papers--were destroyed. The scandalous
promotion<br>
 of Monsieur Marneffe, hardly heeded in the midst of the July
fetes,<br>
 was not commented on in any newspaper.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, to all appearance at war with Madame Marneffe, had
taken up<br>
 her abode with Marshal Hulot. Ten days after these events, the
banns<br>
 of marriage were published between the old maid and the
distinguished<br>
 old officer, to whom, to win his consent, Adeline had related
the<br>
 financial disaster that had befallen her Hector, begging him
never to<br>
 mention it to the Baron, who was, as she said, much saddened,
quite<br>
 depressed and crushed.</p>

<p>"Alas! he is as old as his years," she added.</p>

<p>So Lisbeth had triumphed. She was achieving the object of
her<br>
 ambition, she would see the success of her scheme, and her
hatred<br>
 gratified. She delighted in the anticipated joy of reigning
supreme<br>
 over the family who had so long looked down upon her. Yes, she
would<br>
 patronize her patrons, she would be the rescuing angel who would
dole<br>
 out a livelihood to the ruined family; she addressed herself
as<br>
 "Madame la Comtesse" and "Madame la Marechale," courtesying in
front<br>
 of a glass. Adeline and Hortense should end their days in
struggling<br>
 with poverty, while she, a visitor at the Tuileries, would lord
it in<br>
 the fashionable world.</p>

<p>A terrible disaster overthrew the old maid from the social
heights<br>
 where she so proudly enthroned herself.</p>

<p>On the very day when the banns were first published, the
Baron<br>
 received a second message from Africa. Another Alsatian
arrived,<br>
 handed him a letter, after assuring himself that he spoke to
Baron<br>
 Hulot, and after giving the Baron the address of his lodgings,
bowed<br>
 himself out, leaving the great man stricken by the opening lines
of<br>
 this letter:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"DEAR NEPHEW,--You will receive this letter, by my
calculations,<br>
 on the 7th of August. Supposing it takes you three days to send
us<br>
 the help we need, and that it is a fortnight on the way here,
that<br>
 brings us to the 1st of September.</p>

<p>"If you can act decisively within that time, you will have
saved<br>
 the honor and the life of yours sincerely, Johann Fischer.</p>

<p>"This is what I am required to demand by the clerk you have
made<br>
 my accomplice; for I am amenable, it would seem, to the law,
at<br>
 the Assizes, or before a council of war. Of course, you
understand<br>
 that Johann Fischer will never be brought to the bar of any<br>
 tribunal; he will go of his own act to appear at that of
God.</p>
</blockquote>

<blockquote>
<p><br>
 "Your clerk seems to me a bad lot, quite capable of getting
you<br>
 into hot water; but he is as clever as any rogue. He says the
line<br>
 for you to take is to call out louder than any one, and to
send<br>
 out an inspector, a special commissioner, to discover who is<br>
 really guilty, rake up abuses, and make a fuss, in short; but
if<br>
 we stir up the struggle, who will stand between us and the
law?</p>

<p>"If your commissioner arrives here by the 1st of September,
and<br>
 you have given him your orders, sending by him two hundred<br>
 thousand francs to place in our storehouses the supplies we<br>
 profess to have secured in remote country places, we shall
be<br>
 absolutely solvent and regarded as blameless. You can trust
the<br>
 soldier who is the bearer of this letter with a draft in my
name<br>
 on a house in Algiers. He is a trustworthy fellow, a relation
of<br>
 mine, incapable of trying to find out what he is the bearer of.
I<br>
 have taken measures to guarantee the fellow's safe return. If
you<br>
 can do nothing, I am ready and willing to die for the man to
whom<br>
 we owe our Adeline's happiness!"</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The anguish and raptures of passion and the catastrophe which
had<br>
 checked his career of profligacy had prevented Baron Hulot's
ever<br>
 thinking of poor Johann Fischer, though his first letter had
given<br>
 warning of the danger now become so pressing. The Baron went out
of<br>
 the dining-room in such agitation that he literally dropped on
to a<br>
 sofa in the drawing-room. He was stunned, sunk in the dull
numbness of<br>
 a heavy fall. He stared at a flower on the carpet, quite
unconscious<br>
 that he still held in his hand Johann's fatal letter.</p>

<p><br>
 Adeline, in her room, heard her husband throw himself on the
sofa,<br>
 like a lifeless mass; the noise was so peculiar that she fancied
he<br>
 had an apoplectic attack. She looked through the door at the
mirror,<br>
 in such dread as stops the breath and hinders motion, and she
saw her<br>
 Hector in the attitude of a man crushed. The Baroness stole in
on<br>
 tiptoe; Hector heard nothing; she went close up to him, saw
the<br>
 letter, took it, read it, trembling in every limb. She went
through<br>
 one of those violent nervous shocks that leave their traces for
ever<br>
 on the sufferer. Within a few days she became subject to a
constant<br>
 trembling, for after the first instant the need for action gave
her<br>
 such strength as can only be drawn from the very wellspring of
the<br>
 vital powers.</p>

<p>"Hector, come into my room," said she, in a voice that was no
more<br>
 than a breath. "Do not let your daughter see you in this state!
Come,<br>
 my dear, come!"</p>

<p>"Two hundred thousand francs? Where can I find them? I can get
Claude<br>
 Vignon sent out there as commissioner. He is a clever,
intelligent<br>
 fellow.--That is a matter of a couple of days.--But two
hundred<br>
 thousand francs! My son has not so much; his house is loaded
with<br>
 mortgages for three hundred thousand. My brother has saved
thirty<br>
 thousand francs at most. Nucingen would simply laugh at
me!--Vauvinet?<br>
 --he was not very ready to lend me the ten thousand francs I
wanted to<br>
 make up the sum for that villain Marneffe's boy. No, it is all
up with<br>
 me; I must throw myself at the Prince's feet, confess how
matters<br>
 stand, hear myself told that I am a low scoundrel, and take
his<br>
 broadside so as to go decently to the bottom."</p>

<p>"But, Hector, this is not merely ruin, it is disgrace," said
Adeline.<br>
 "My poor uncle will kill himself. Only kill us--yourself and me;
you<br>
 have a right to do that, but do not be a murderer! Come, take
courage;<br>
 there must be some way out of it."</p>

<p>"Not one," said Hulot. "No one in the Government could find
two<br>
 hundred thousand francs, not if it were to save an
Administration!--<br>
 Oh, Napoleon! where art thou?"</p>

<p>"My uncle! poor man! Hector, he must not be allowed to kill
himself in<br>
 disgrace."</p>

<p>"There is one more chance," said he, "but a very remote
one.--Yes,<br>
 Crevel is at daggers drawn with his daughter.--He has plenty of
money,<br>
 he alone could--"</p>

<p>"Listen, Hector it will be better for your wife to perish than
to<br>
 leave our uncle to perish--and your brother--the honor of the
family!"<br>
 cried the Baroness, struck by a flash of light. "Yes, I can save
you<br>
 all.--Good God! what a degrading thought! How could it have
occurred<br>
 to me?"</p>

<p>She clasped her hands, dropped on her knees, and put up a
prayer. On<br>
 rising, she saw such a crazy expression of joy on her husband's
face,<br>
 that the diabolical suggestion returned, and then Adeline sank
into a<br>
 sort of idiotic melancholy.</p>

<p>"Go, my dear, at once to the War Office," said she, rousing
herself<br>
 from this torpor; "try to send out a commission; it must be
done. Get<br>
 round the Marshal. And on your return, at five o'clock, you will
find<br>
 --perhaps--yes! you shall find two hundred thousand francs.
Your<br>
 family, your honor as a man, as a State official, a Councillor
of<br>
 State, your honesty--your son--all shall be saved;--but your
Adeline<br>
 will be lost, and you will see her no more. Hector, my dear,"
said<br>
 she, kneeling before him, clasping and kissing his hand, "give
me your<br>
 blessing! Say farewell."</p>

<p>It was so heart-rending that Hulot put his arms round his
wife, raised<br>
 her and kissed her, saying:</p>

<p>"I do not understand."</p>

<p>"If you did," said she, "I should die of shame, or I should
not have<br>
 the strength to carry out this last sacrifice."</p>

<p>"Breakfast is served," said Mariette.</p>

<p>Hortense came in to wish her parents good-morning. They had to
go to<br>
 breakfast and assume a false face.</p>

<p>"Begin without me; I will join you," said the Baroness.</p>

<p>She sat down to her desk and wrote as follows:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"MY DEAR MONSIEUR CREVEL,--I have to ask a service of you; I
shall<br>
 expect you this morning, and I count on your gallantry, which
is<br>
 well known to me, to save me from having too long to wait for
you.<br>
 --Your faithful servant,</p>

<p>"ADELINE HULOT."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 "Louise," said she to her daughter's maid, who waited on her,
"take<br>
 this note down to the porter and desire him to carry it at once
to<br>
 this address and wait for an answer."</p>

<p><br>
 The Baron, who was reading the news, held out a Republican paper
to<br>
 his wife, pointing to an article, and saying:</p>

<p>"Is there time?"</p>

<p>This was the paragraph, one of the terrible "notes" with which
the<br>
 papers spice their political bread and butter:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"A correspondent in Algiers writes that such abuses have
been<br>
 discovered in the commissariate transactions of the province
of<br>
 Oran, that the Law is making inquiries. The peculation is
self-<br>
 evident, and the guilty persons are known. If severe measures
are<br>
 not taken, we shall continue to lose more men through the<br>
 extortion that limits their rations than by Arab steel or
the<br>
 fierce heat of the climate. We await further information
before<br>
 enlarging on this deplorable business. We need no longer wonder
at<br>
 the terror caused by the establishment of the Press in Africa,
as<br>
 was contemplated by the Charter of 1830."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>"I will dress and go to the Minister," said the Baron, as they
rose<br>
 from table. "Time is precious; a man's life hangs on every
minute."</p>

<p>"Oh, mamma, there is no hope for me!" cried Hortense. And
unable to<br>
 check her tears, she handed to her mother a number of the
<i>Revue des<br>
 Beaux Arts.</i></p>

<p><br>
 Madame Hulot's eye fell on a print of the group of "Delilah" by
Count<br>
 Steinbock, under which were the words, "The property of
Madame<br>
 Marneffe."</p>

<p>The very first lines of the article, signed V., showed the
talent and<br>
 friendliness of Claude Vignon.</p>

<p>"Poor child!" said the Baroness.</p>

<p>Alarmed by her mother's tone of indifference, Hortense looked
up, saw<br>
 the expression of a sorrow before which her own paled, and rose
to<br>
 kiss her mother, saying:</p>

<p>"What is the matter, mamma? What is happening? Can we be more
wretched<br>
 than we are already?"</p>

<p>"My child, it seems to me that in what I am going through
to-day my<br>
 past dreadful sorrows are as nothing. When shall I have ceased
to<br>
 suffer?"</p>

<p>"In heaven, mother," said Hortense solemnly.</p>

<p>"Come, my angel, help me to dress.--No, no; I will not have
you help<br>
 me in this! Send me Louise."</p>

<p>Adeline, in her room, went to study herself in the glass. She
looked<br>
 at herself closely and sadly, wondering to herself:</p>

<p>"Am I still handsome? Can I still be desirable? Am I not
wrinkled?"</p>

<p>She lifted up her fine golden hair, uncovering her temples;
they were<br>
 as fresh as a girl's. She went further; she uncovered her
shoulders,<br>
 and was satisfied; nay, she had a little feeling of pride. The
beauty<br>
 of really handsome shoulders is one of the last charms a woman
loses,<br>
 especially if she has lived chastely.</p>

<p>Adeline chose her dress carefully, but the pious and blameless
woman<br>
 is decent to the end, in spite of her little coquettish graces.
Of<br>
 what use were brand-new gray silk stockings and high heeled
satin<br>
 shoes when she was absolutely ignorant of the art of displaying
a<br>
 pretty foot at a critical moment, by obtruding it an inch or
two<br>
 beyond a half-lifted skirt, opening horizons to desire? She put
on,<br>
 indeed, her prettiest flowered muslin dress, with a low body and
short<br>
 sleeves; but horrified at so much bareness, she covered her fine
arms<br>
 with clear gauze sleeves and hid her shoulders under an
embroidered<br>
 cape. Her curls, <i>a l'Anglaise</i>, struck her as too
fly-away; she<br>
 subdued their airy lightness by putting on a very pretty cap;
but,<br>
 with or without the cap, would she have known how to twist the
golden<br>
 ringlets so as to show off her taper fingers to admiration?</p>

<p>As to rouge--the consciousness of guilt, the preparations for
a<br>
 deliberate fall, threw this saintly woman into a state of high
fever,<br>
 which, for the time, revived the brilliant coloring of youth.
Her eyes<br>
 were bright, her cheeks glowed. Instead of assuming a seductive
air,<br>
 she saw in herself a look of barefaced audacity which shocked
her.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, at Adeline's request, had told her all the
circumstances of<br>
 Wenceslas' infidelity; and the Baroness had learned to her
utter<br>
 amazement, that in one evening in one moment, Madame Marneffe
had made<br>
 herself the mistress of the bewitched artist.</p>

<p>"How do these women do it?" the Baroness had asked
Lisbeth.</p>

<p>There is no curiosity so great as that of virtuous women on
such<br>
 subjects; they would like to know the arts of vice and
remain<br>
 immaculate.</p>

<p>"Why, they are seductive; it is their business," said Cousin
Betty.<br>
 "Valerie that evening, my dear, was, I declare, enough to bring
an<br>
 angel to perdition."</p>

<p>"But tell me how she set to work."</p>

<p>"There is no principle, only practice in that walk of life,"
said<br>
 Lisbeth ironically.</p>

<p>The Baroness, recalling this conversation, would have liked to
consult<br>
 Cousin Betty; but there was no time for that. Poor Adeline,
incapable<br>
 of imagining a patch, of pinning a rosebud in the very middle of
her<br>
 bosom, of devising the tricks of the toilet intended to
resuscitate<br>
 the ardors of exhausted nature, was merely well dressed. A woman
is<br>
 not a courtesan for the wishing!</p>

<p>"Woman is soup for man," as Moliere says by the mouth of the
judicious<br>
 Gros-Rene. This comparison suggests a sort of culinary art in
love.<br>
 Then the virtuous wife would be a Homeric meal, flesh laid on
hot<br>
 cinders. The courtesan, on the contrary, is a dish by Careme,
with its<br>
 condiments, spices, and elegant arrangement. The Baroness could
not--<br>
 did not know how to serve up her fair bosom in a lordly dish of
lace,<br>
 after the manner of Madame Marneffe. She knew nothing of the
secrets<br>
 of certain attitudes. This high-souled woman might have turned
round<br>
 and round a hundred times, and she would have betrayed nothing
to the<br>
 keen glance of a profligate.</p>

<p>To be a good woman and a prude to all the world, and a
courtesan to<br>
 her husband, is the gift of a woman of genius, and they are few.
This<br>
 is the secret of long fidelity, inexplicable to the women who
are not<br>
 blessed with the double and splendid faculty. Imagine Madame
Marneffe<br>
 virtuous, and you have the Marchesa di Pescara. But such lofty
and<br>
 illustrious women, beautiful as Diane de Poitiers, but virtuous,
may<br>
 be easily counted.</p>

<p>So the scene with which this serious and terrible drama of
Paris<br>
 manners opened was about to be repeated, with this singular
difference<br>
 --that the calamities prophesied then by the captain of the
municipal<br>
 Militia had reversed the parts. Madame Hulot was awaiting Crevel
with<br>
 the same intentions as had brought him to her, smiling down at
the<br>
 Paris crowd from his <i>milord</i>, three years ago. And,
strangest thing<br>
 of all, the Baroness was true to herself and to her love,
while<br>
 preparing to yield to the grossest infidelity, such as the storm
of<br>
 passion even does not justify in the eyes of some judges.</p>

<p>"What can I do to become a Madame Marneffe?" she asked herself
as she<br>
 heard the door-bell.</p>

<p>She restrained her tears, fever gave brilliancy to her face,
and she<br>
 meant to be quite the courtesan, poor, noble soul.</p>

<p>"What the devil can that worthy Baronne Hulot want of me?"
Crevel<br>
 wondered as he mounted the stairs. "She is going to discuss my
quarrel<br>
 with Celestine and Victorin, no doubt; but I will not give
way!"</p>

<p>As he went into the drawing-room, shown in by Louise, he said
to<br>
 himself as he noted the bareness of the place (Crevel's
word):</p>

<p>"Poor woman! She lives here like some fine picture stowed in a
loft by<br>
 a man who knows nothing of painting."</p>

<p>Crevel, seeing Comte Popinot, the Minister of Commerce, buy
pictures<br>
 and statues, wanted also to figure as a Maecenas of Paris, whose
love<br>
 of Art consists in making good investments.</p>

<p>Adeline smiled graciously at Crevel, pointing to a chair
facing her.</p>

<p>"Here I am, fair lady, at your command," said Crevel.</p>

<p>Monsieur the Mayor, a political personage, now wore black
broadcloth.<br>
 His face, at the top of this solemn suit, shone like a full
moon<br>
 rising above a mass of dark clouds. His shirt, buttoned with
three<br>
 large pearls worth five hundred francs apiece, gave a great idea
of<br>
 his thoracic capacity, and he was apt to say, "In me you see
the<br>
 coming athlete of the tribune!" His enormous vulgar hands were
encased<br>
 in yellow gloves even in the morning; his patent leather boots
spoke<br>
 of the chocolate-colored coupe with one horse in which he
drove.</p>

<p>In the course of three years ambition had altered Crevel's<br>
 pretensions. Like all great artists, he had come to his second
manner.<br>
 In the great world, when he went to the Prince de Wissembourg's,
to<br>
 the Prefecture, to Comte Popinot's, and the like, he held his
hat in<br>
 his hand in an airy manner taught him by Valerie, and he
inserted the<br>
 thumb of the other hand in the armhole of his waistcoat with a
knowing<br>
 air, and a simpering face and expression. This new grace of
attitude<br>
 was due to the satirical inventiveness of Valerie, who, under
pretence<br>
 of rejuvenating her mayor, had given him an added touch of
the<br>
 ridiculous.</p>

<p>"I begged you to come, my dear kind Monsieur Crevel," said
the<br>
 Baroness in a husky voice, "on a matter of the greatest
importance--"</p>

<p>"I can guess what it is, madame," said Crevel, with a knowing
air,<br>
 "but what you would ask is impossible.--Oh, I am not a brutal
father,<br>
 a man--to use Napoleon's words--set hard and fast on sheer
avarice.<br>
 Listen to me, fair lady. If my children were ruining themselves
for<br>
 their own benefit, I would help them out of the scrape; but as
for<br>
 backing your husband, madame? It is like trying to fill the vat
of the<br>
 Danaides! Their house is mortgaged for three hundred thousand
francs<br>
 for an incorrigible father! Why, they have nothing left,
poor<br>
 wretches! And they have no fun for their money. All they have to
live<br>
 upon is what Victorin may make in Court. He must wag his tongue
more,<br>
 must monsieur your son! And he was to have been a Minister,
that<br>
 learned youth! Our hope and pride. A pretty pilot, who runs
aground<br>
 like a land-lubber; for if he had borrowed to enable him to get
on, if<br>
 he had run into debt for feasting Deputies, winning votes,
and<br>
 increasing his influence, I should be the first to say, 'Here is
my<br>
 purse--dip your hand in, my friend!' But when it comes of paying
for<br>
 papa's folly--folly I warned you of!--Ah! his father has
deprived him<br>
 of every chance of power.--It is I who shall be Minister!"</p>

<p>"Alas, my dear Crevel, it has nothing to do with the children,
poor<br>
 devoted souls!--If your heart is closed to Victorin and
Celestine, I<br>
 shall love them so much that perhaps I may soften the bitterness
of<br>
 their souls caused by your anger. You are punishing your
children for<br>
 a good action!"</p>

<p>"Yes, for a good action badly done! That is half a crime,"
said<br>
 Crevel, much pleased with his epigram.</p>

<p>"Doing good, my dear Crevel, does not mean sparing money out
of a<br>
 purse that is bursting with it; it means enduring privations to
be<br>
 generous, suffering for liberality! It is being prepared for<br>
 ingratitude! Heaven does not see the charity that costs us
nothing--"</p>

<p>"Saints, madame, may if they please go to the workhouse; they
know<br>
 that it is for them the door of heaven. For my part, I am
worldly-<br>
 minded; I fear God, but yet more I fear the hell of poverty. To
be<br>
 destitute is the last depth of misfortune in society as now<br>
 constituted. I am a man of my time; I respect money."</p>

<p>"And you are right," said Adeline, "from the worldly point of
view."</p>

<p>She was a thousand miles from her point, and she felt herself
on a<br>
 gridiron, like Saint Laurence, as she thought of her uncle, for
she<br>
 could see him blowing his brains out.</p>

<p>She looked down; then she raised her eyes to gaze at Crevel
with<br>
 angelic sweetness--not with the inviting suggestiveness which
was part<br>
 of Valerie's wit. Three years ago she could have bewitched
Crevel by<br>
 that beautiful look.</p>

<p>"I have known the time," said she, "when you were more
generous--you<br>
 used to talk of three hundred thousand francs like a grand<br>
 gentleman--"</p>

<p>Crevel looked at Madame Hulot; he beheld her like a lily in
the last<br>
 of its bloom, vague sensations rose within him, but he felt
such<br>
 respect for this saintly creature that he spurned all suspicions
and<br>
 buried them in the most profligate corner of his heart.</p>

<p>"I, madame, am still the same; but a retired merchant, if he
is a<br>
 grand gentleman, plays, and must play, the part with method
and<br>
 economy; he carries his ideas of order into everything. He opens
an<br>
 account for his little amusements, and devotes certain profits
to that<br>
 head of expenditure; but as to touching his capital! it would
be<br>
 folly. My children will have their fortune intact, mine and my
wife's;<br>
 but I do not suppose that they wish their father to be dull, a
monk<br>
 and a mummy! My life is a very jolly one; I float gaily down
the<br>
 stream. I fulfil all the duties imposed on me by law, by my<br>
 affections, and by family ties, just as I always used to be
punctual<br>
 in paying my bills when they fell due. If only my children
conduct<br>
 themselves in their domestic life as I do, I shall be satisfied;
and<br>
 for the present, so long as my follies--for I have committed
follies--<br>
 are no loss to any one but the gulls--excuse me, you do not
perhaps<br>
 understand the slang word--they will have nothing to blame me
for, and<br>
 will find a tidy little sum still left when I die. Your
children<br>
 cannot say as much of their father, who is ruining his son and
my<br>
 daughter by his pranks--"</p>

<p><br>
 The Baroness was getting further from her object as he went
on.</p>

<p>"You are very unkind about my husband, my dear Crevel--and
yet, if you<br>
 had found his wife obliging, you would have been his best
friend----"</p>

<p>She shot a burning glance at Crevel; but, like Dubois, who
gave the<br>
 Regent three kicks, she affected too much, and the rakish
perfumer's<br>
 thoughts jumped at such profligate suggestions, that he said
to<br>
 himself, "Does she want to turn the tables on Hulot?--Does she
think<br>
 me more attractive as a Mayor than as a National Guardsman?
Women are<br>
 strange creatures!"</p>

<p>And he assumed the position of his second manner, looking at
the<br>
 Baroness with his <i>Regency</i> leer.</p>

<p>"I could almost fancy," she went on, "that you want to visit
on him<br>
 your resentment against the virtue that resisted you--in a woman
whom<br>
 you loved well enough--to--to buy her," she added in a low
voice.</p>

<p>"In a divine woman," Crevel replied, with a meaning smile at
the<br>
 Baroness, who looked down while tears rose to her eyes. "For you
have<br>
 swallowed not a few bitter pills!--in these three years--hey,
my<br>
 beauty?"</p>

<p>"Do not talk of my troubles, dear Crevel; they are too much
for the<br>
 endurance of a mere human being. Ah! if you still love me, you
may<br>
 drag me out of the pit in which I lie. Yes, I am in hell
torment! The<br>
 regicides who were racked and nipped and torn into quarters by
four<br>
 horses were on roses compared with me, for their bodies only
were<br>
 dismembered, and my heart is torn in quarters----"</p>

<p>Crevel's thumb moved from his armhole, he placed his hand on
the work-<br>
 table, he abandoned his attitude, he smiled! The smile was so
vacuous<br>
 that it misled the Baroness; she took it for an expression
of<br>
 kindness.</p>

<p>"You see a woman, not indeed in despair, but with her honor at
the<br>
 point of death, and prepared for everything, my dear friend, to
hinder<br>
 a crime."</p>

<p>Fearing that Hortense might come in, she bolted the door; then
with<br>
 equal impetuosity she fell at Crevel's feet, took his hand and
kissed<br>
 it.</p>

<p>"Be my deliverer!" she cried.</p>

<p>She thought there was some generous fibre in this mercantile
soul, and<br>
 full of sudden hope that she might get the two hundred thousand
francs<br>
 without degrading herself:</p>

<p>"Buy a soul--you were once ready to buy virtue!" she went on,
with a<br>
 frenzied gaze. "Trust to my honesty as a woman, to my honor, of
which<br>
 you know the worth! Be my friend! Save a whole family from
ruin,<br>
 shame, despair; keep it from falling into a bog where the
quicksands<br>
 are mingled with blood! Oh! ask for no explanations," she
exclaimed,<br>
 at a movement on Crevel's part, who was about to speak. "Above
all, do<br>
 not say to me, 'I told you so!' like a friend who is glad at
a<br>
 misfortune. Come now, yield to her whom you used to love, to the
woman<br>
 whose humiliation at your feet is perhaps the crowning moment of
her<br>
 glory; ask nothing of her, expect what you will from her
gratitude!--<br>
 No, no. Give me nothing, but lend--lend to me whom you used to
call<br>
 Adeline----"</p>

<p>At this point her tears flowed so fast, Adeline was sobbing
so<br>
 passionately, that Crevel's gloves were wet. The words, "I need
two<br>
 hundred thousand francs," were scarcely articulate in the
torrent of<br>
 weeping, as stones, however large, are invisible in Alpine
cataracts<br>
 swollen by the melting of the snows.</p>

<p>This is the inexperience of virtue. Vice asks for nothing, as
we have<br>
 seen in Madame Marneffe; it gets everything offered to it. Women
of<br>
 that stamp are never exacting till they have made themselves<br>
 indispensable, or when a man has to be worked as a quarry is
worked<br>
 where the lime is rather scarce--going to ruin, as the
quarry-men say.</p>

<p>On hearing these words, "Two hundred thousand francs,"
Crevel<br>
 understood all. He cheerfully raised the Baroness, saying
insolently:</p>

<p>"Come, come, bear up, mother," which Adeline, in her
distraction,<br>
 failed to hear. The scene was changing its character. Crevel
was<br>
 becoming "master of the situation," to use his own words. The
vastness<br>
 of the sum startled Crevel so greatly that his emotion at seeing
this<br>
 handsome woman in tears at his feet was forgotten. Besides,
however<br>
 angelical and saintly a woman may be, when she is crying
bitterly her<br>
 beauty disappears. A Madame Marneffe, as has been seen, whimpers
now<br>
 and then, a tear trickles down her cheek; but as to melting into
tears<br>
 and making her eyes and nose red!--never would she commit such
a<br>
 blunder.</p>

<p>"Come, child, compose yourself.--Deuce take it!" Crevel went
on,<br>
 taking Madame Hulot's hands in his own and patting them. "Why do
you<br>
 apply to me for two hundred thousand francs? What do you want
with<br>
 them? Whom are they for?"</p>

<p>"Do not," said she, "insist on any explanations. Give me the
money!--<br>
 You will save three lives and the honor of our children."</p>

<p>"And do you suppose, my good mother, that in all Paris you
will find a<br>
 man who at a word from a half-crazy woman will go off <i>hic et
nunc</i>,<br>
 and bring out of some drawer, Heaven knows where, two hundred
thousand<br>
 francs that have been lying simmering there till she is pleased
to<br>
 scoop them up? Is that all you know of life and of business,
my<br>
 beauty? Your folks are in a bad way; you may send them the
last<br>
 sacraments; for no one in Paris but her Divine Highness Madame
la<br>
 Banque, or the great Nucingen, or some miserable miser who is in
love<br>
 with gold as we other folks are with a woman, could produce such
a<br>
 miracle! The civil list, civil as it may be, would beg you to
call<br>
 again tomorrow. Every one invests his money, and turns it over
to the<br>
 best of his powers.</p>

<p>"You are quite mistaken, my angel, if you suppose that King
Louis-<br>
 Philippe rules us; he himself knows better than that. He knows
as well<br>
 as we do that supreme above the Charter reigns the holy,
venerated,<br>
 substantial, delightful, obliging, beautiful, noble,
ever-youthful,<br>
 and all-powerful five-franc piece! But money, my beauty, insists
on<br>
 interest, and is always engaged in seeking it! 'God of the Jews,
thou<br>
 art supreme!' says Racine. The perennial parable of the golden
calf,<br>
 you see!--In the days of Moses there was stock-jobbing in the
desert!</p>

<p>"We have reverted to Biblical traditions; the Golden Calf was
the<br>
 first State ledger," he went on. "You, my Adeline, have not
gone<br>
 beyond the Rue Plumet. The Egyptians had lent enormous sums to
the<br>
 Hebrews, and what they ran after was not God's people, but
their<br>
 capital."</p>

<p>He looked at the Baroness with an expression which said, "How
clever I<br>
 am!"</p>

<p>"You know nothing of the devotion of every city man to his
sacred<br>
 hoard!" he went on, after a pause. "Excuse me. Listen to me. Get
this<br>
 well into your head.--You want two hundred thousand francs? No
one can<br>
 produce the sum without selling some security. Now consider! To
have<br>
 two hundred thousand francs in hard cash it would be needful to
sell<br>
 about seven hundred thousand francs' worth of stock at three per
cent.<br>
 Well; and then you would only get the money on the third day.
That is<br>
 the quickest way. To persuade a man to part with a fortune--for
two<br>
 hundred thousand francs is the whole fortune of many a man--he
ought<br>
 at least to know where it is all going to, and for what
purpose--"</p>

<p>"It is going, my dear kind Crevel, to save the lives of two
men, one<br>
 of whom will die of grief and the other will kill himself! And
to save<br>
 me too from going mad! Am I not a little mad already?"</p>

<p>"Not so mad!" said he, taking Madame Hulot round the knees;
"old<br>
 Crevel has his price, since you thought of applying to him, my
angel."</p>

<p>"They submit to have a man's arms round their knees, it would
seem!"<br>
 thought the saintly woman, covering her face with her hands.</p>

<p>"Once you offered me a fortune!" said she, turning red.</p>

<p>"Ay, mother! but that was three years ago!" replied Crevel.
"Well, you<br>
 are handsomer now than ever I saw you!" he went on, taking
the<br>
 Baroness' arm and pressing it to his heart. "You have a good
memory,<br>
 my dear, by Jove!--And now you see how wrong you were to be
so<br>
 prudish, for those three hundred thousand francs that you
refused so<br>
 magnanimously are in another woman's pocket. I loved you then, I
love<br>
 you still; but just look back these three years.</p>

<p>"When I said to you, 'You shall be mine,' what object had I in
view? I<br>
 meant to be revenged on that rascal Hulot. But your husband,
my<br>
 beauty, found himself a mistress--a jewel of a woman, a pearl,
a<br>
 cunning hussy then aged three-and-twenty, for she is
six-and-twenty<br>
 now. It struck me as more amusing, more complete, more Louis
XV., more<br>
 Marechal de Richelieu, more first-class altogether, to filch
away that<br>
 charmer, who, in point of fact, never cared for Hulot, and who
for<br>
 these three years has been madly in love with your humble
servant."</p>

<p>As he spoke, Crevel, from whose hands the Baroness had
released her<br>
 own, had resumed his favorite attitude; both thumbs were stuck
into<br>
 his armholes, and he was patting his ribs with his fingers, like
two<br>
 flapping wings, fancying that he was thus making himself
very<br>
 attractive and charming. It was as much as to say, "And this is
the<br>
 man you would have nothing to say to!"</p>

<p>"There you are my dear; I had my revenge, and your husband
knows it. I<br>
 proved to him clearly that he was basketed--just where he was
before,<br>
 as we say. Madame Marneffe is my mistress, and when her
precious<br>
 Marneffe kicks the bucket, she will be my wife."</p>

<p>Madame Hulot stared at Crevel with a fixed and almost dazed
look.</p>

<p>"Hector knew it?" she said.</p>

<p>"And went back to her," replied Crevel. "And I allowed it,
because<br>
 Valerie wished to be the wife of a head-clerk; but she promised
me<br>
 that she would manage things so that our Baron should be so<br>
 effectually bowled over that he can never interfere any more.
And my<br>
 little duchess--for that woman is a born duchess, on my
soul!--kept<br>
 her word. She restores you your Hector, madame, virtuous in<br>
 perpetuity, as she says--she is so witty! He has had a good
lesson, I<br>
 can tell you! The Baron has had some hard knocks; he will help
no more<br>
 actresses or fine ladies; he is radically cured; cleaned out
like a<br>
 beer-glass.</p>

<p>"If you had listened to Crevel in the first instance, instead
of<br>
 scorning him and turning him out of the house, you might have
had four<br>
 hundred thousand francs, for my revenge has cost me all of
that.--But<br>
 I shall get my change back, I hope, when Marneffe dies--I
have<br>
 invested in a wife, you see; that is the secret of my
extravagance. I<br>
 have solved the problem of playing the lord on easy terms."</p>

<p>"Would you give your daughter such a mother-in-law? cried
Madame<br>
 Hulot.</p>

<p>"You do not know Valerie, madame," replied Crevel gravely,
striking<br>
 the attitude of his first manner. "She is a woman with good
blood in<br>
 her veins, a lady, and a woman who enjoys the highest
consideration.<br>
 Why, only yesterday the vicar of the parish was dining with her.
She<br>
 is pious, and we have presented a splendid monstrance to the
church.</p>

<p>"Oh! she is clever, she is witty, she is delightful, well
informed--<br>
 she has everything in her favor. For my part, my dear Adeline, I
owe<br>
 everything to that charming woman; she has opened my mind,
polished my<br>
 speech, as you may have noticed; she corrects my impetuosity,
and<br>
 gives me words and ideas. I never say anything now that I ought
not. I<br>
 have greatly improved; you must have noticed it. And then she
has<br>
 encouraged my ambition. I shall be a Deputy; and I shall make
no<br>
 blunders, for I shall consult my Egeria. Every great politician,
from<br>
 Numa to our present Prime Minister, has had his Sibyl of the
fountain.<br>
 A score of deputies visit Valerie; she is acquiring
considerable<br>
 influence; and now that she is about to be established in a
charming<br>
 house, with a carriage, she will be one of the occult rulers of
Paris.</p>

<p>"A fine locomotive! That is what such a woman is. Oh, I have
blessed<br>
 you many a time for your stern virtue."</p>

<p>"It is enough to make one doubt the goodness of God!" cried
Adeline,<br>
 whose indignation had dried her tears. "But, no! Divine justice
must<br>
 be hanging over her head."</p>

<p>"You know nothing of the world, my beauty," said the great
politician,<br>
 deeply offended. "The world, my Adeline, loves success! Say,
now, has<br>
 it come to seek out your sublime virtue, priced at two
hundred<br>
 thousand francs?"</p>

<p>The words made Madame Hulot shudder; the nervous trembling
attacked<br>
 her once more. She saw that the ex-perfumer was taking a mean
revenge<br>
 on her as he had on Hulot; she felt sick with disgust, and a
spasm<br>
 rose to her throat, hindering speech.</p>

<p>"Money!" she said at last. "Always money!"</p>

<p>"You touched me deeply," said Crevel, reminded by these words
of the<br>
 woman's humiliation, "when I beheld you there, weeping at my
feet!--<br>
 You perhaps will not believe me, but if I had my pocket-book
about me,<br>
 it would have been yours.--Come, do you really want such a
sum?"</p>

<p>As she heard this question, big with two hundred thousand
francs,<br>
 Adeline forgot the odious insults heaped on her by this
cheap-jack<br>
 fine gentleman, before the tempting picture of success described
by<br>
 Machiavelli-Crevel, who only wanted to find out her secrets and
laugh<br>
 over them with Valerie.</p>

<p>"Oh! I will do anything, everything," cried the unhappy
woman.<br>
 "Monsieur, I will sell myself--I will be a Valerie, if I
must."</p>

<p>"You will find that difficult," replied Crevel. "Valerie is
a<br>
 masterpiece in her way. My good mother, twenty-five years of
virtue<br>
 are always repellent, like a badly treated disease. And your
virtue<br>
 has grown very mouldy, my dear child. But you shall see how much
I<br>
 love you. I will manage to get you your two hundred thousand
francs."</p>

<p>Adeline, incapable of uttering a word, seized his hand and
laid it on<br>
 her heart; a tear of joy trembled in her eyes.</p>

<p>"Oh! don't be in a hurry; there will be some hard pulling. I
am a<br>
 jolly good fellow, a good soul with no prejudices, and I will
put<br>
 things plainly to you. You want to do as Valerie does--very
good. But<br>
 that is not all; you must have a gull, a stockholder, a
Hulot.--Well,<br>
 I know a retired tradesman--in fact, a hosier. He is heavy,
dull, has<br>
 not an idea, I am licking him into shape, but I don't know when
he<br>
 will do me credit. My man is a deputy, stupid and conceited;
the<br>
 tyranny of a turbaned wife, in the depths of the country,
has<br>
 preserved him in a state of utter virginity as to the luxury
and<br>
 pleasures of Paris life. But Beauvisage--his name is
Beauvisage--is a<br>
 millionaire, and, like me, my dear, three years ago, he will
give a<br>
 hundred thousand crowns to be the lover of a real lady.--Yes,
you<br>
 see," he went on, misunderstanding a gesture on Adeline's part,
"he is<br>
 jealous of me, you understand; jealous of my happiness with
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, and he is a fellow quite capable of selling an estate
to<br>
 purchase a--"</p>

<p><br>
 "Enough, Monsieur Crevel!" said Madame Hulot, no longer
controlling<br>
 her disgust, and showing all her shame in her face. "I am
punished<br>
 beyond my deserts. My conscience, so sternly repressed by the
iron<br>
 hand of necessity, tells me, at this final insult, that such<br>
 sacrifices are impossible.--My pride is gone; I do not say now,
as I<br>
 did the first time, 'Go!' after receiving this mortal thrust. I
have<br>
 lost the right to do so. I have flung myself before you like
a<br>
 prostitute.</p>

<p>"Yes," she went on, in reply to a negative on Crevel's part,
"I have<br>
 fouled my life, till now so pure, by a degrading thought; and I
am<br>
 inexcusable!--I know it!--I deserve every insult you can offer
me!<br>
 God's will be done! If, indeed, He desires the death of two
creatures<br>
 worthy to appear before Him, they must die! I shall mourn them,
and<br>
 pray for them! If it is His will that my family should be
humbled to<br>
 the dust, we must bow to His avenging sword, nay, and kiss it,
since<br>
 we are Christians.--I know how to expiate this disgrace, which
will be<br>
 the torment of all my remaining days.</p>

<p>"I who speak to you, monsieur, am not Madame Hulot, but a
wretched,<br>
 humble sinner, a Christian whose heart henceforth will know but
one<br>
 feeling, and that is repentance, all my time given up to prayer
and<br>
 charity. With such a sin on my soul, I am the last of women, the
first<br>
 only of penitents.--You have been the means of bringing me to a
right<br>
 mind; I can hear the Voice of God speaking within me, and I can
thank<br>
 you!"</p>

<p>She was shaking with the nervous trembling which from that
hour never<br>
 left her. Her low, sweet tones were quite unlike the fevered
accents<br>
 of the woman who was ready for dishonor to save her family. The
blood<br>
 faded from her cheeks, her face was colorless, and her eyes were
dry.</p>

<p>"And I played my part very badly, did I not?" she went on,
looking at<br>
 Crevel with the sweetness that martyrs must have shown in their
eyes<br>
 as they looked up at the Proconsul. "True love, the sacred love
of a<br>
 devoted woman, gives other pleasures, no doubt, than those that
are<br>
 bought in the open market!--But why so many words?" said she,
suddenly<br>
 bethinking herself, and advancing a step further in the way
to<br>
 perfection. "They sound like irony, but I am not ironical!
Forgive me.<br>
 Besides, monsieur, I did not want to hurt any one but
myself--"</p>

<p>The dignity of virtue and its holy flame had expelled the
transient<br>
 impurity of the woman who, splendid in her own peculiar beauty,
looked<br>
 taller in Crevel's eyes. Adeline had, at this moment, the
majesty of<br>
 the figures of Religion clinging to the Cross, as painted by the
old<br>
 Venetians; but she expressed, too, the immensity of her love and
the<br>
 grandeur of the Catholic Church, to which she flew like a
wounded<br>
 dove.</p>

<p>Crevel was dazzled, astounded.</p>

<p>"Madame, I am your slave, without conditions," said he, in
an<br>
 inspiration of generosity. "We will look into this
matter--and--<br>
 whatever you want--the impossible even--I will do. I will pledge
my<br>
 securities at the Bank, and in two hours you shall have the
money."</p>

<p>"Good God! a miracle!" said poor Adeline, falling on her
knees.</p>

<p>She prayed to Heaven with such fervor as touched Crevel
deeply; Madame<br>
 Hulot saw that he had tears in his eyes when, having ended her
prayer,<br>
 she rose to her feet.</p>

<p>"Be a friend to me, monsieur," said she. "Your heart is better
than<br>
 your words and conduct. God gave you your soul; your passions
and the<br>
 world have given you your ideas. Oh, I will love you truly,"
she<br>
 exclaimed, with an angelic tenderness in strange contrast with
her<br>
 attempts at coquettish trickery.</p>

<p>"But cease to tremble so," said Crevel.</p>

<p>"Am I trembling?" said the Baroness, unconscious of the
infirmity that<br>
 had so suddenly come upon her.</p>

<p>"Yes; why, look," said Crevel, taking Adeline by the arm and
showing<br>
 her that she was shaking with nervousness. "Come, madame," he
added<br>
 respectfully, "compose yourself; I am going to the Bank at
once."</p>

<p>"And come back quickly! Remember," she added, betraying all
her<br>
 secrets, "that the first point is to prevent the suicide of our
poor<br>
 Uncle Fischer involved by my husband--for I trust you now, and I
am<br>
 telling you everything. Oh, if we should not be on time, I know
my<br>
 brother-in-law, the Marshal, and he has such a delicate soul,
that he<br>
 would die of it in a few days."</p>

<p>"I am off, then," said Crevel, kissing the Baroness' hand.
"But what<br>
 has that unhappy Hulot done?"</p>

<p>"He has swindled the Government."</p>

<p>"Good Heavens! I fly, madame; I understand, I admire you!"</p>

<p>Crevel bent one knee, kissed Madame Hulot's skirt, and
vanished,<br>
 saying, "You will see me soon."</p>

<p>Unluckily, on his way from the Rue Plumet to his own house, to
fetch<br>
 the securities, Crevel went along the Rue Vanneau, and he could
not<br>
 resist going in to see his little Duchess. His face still bore
an<br>
 agitated expression.</p>

<p>He went straight into Valerie's room, who was having her hair
dressed.<br>
 She looked at Crevel in her glass, and, like every woman of that
sort,<br>
 was annoyed, before she knew anything about it, to see that he
was<br>
 moved by some strong feeling of which she was not the cause.</p>

<p>"What is the matter, my dear?" said she. "Is that a face to
bring in<br>
 to your little Duchess? I will not be your Duchess any more,
monsieur,<br>
 no more than I will be your 'little duck,' you old monster."</p>

<p>Crevel replied by a melancholy smile and a glance at the
maid.</p>

<p>"Reine, child, that will do for to-day; I can finish my hair
myself.<br>
 Give me my Chinese wrapper; my gentleman seems to me out of
sorts."</p>

<p>Reine, whose face was pitted like a colander, and who seemed
to have<br>
 been made on purpose to wait on Valerie, smiled meaningly in
reply,<br>
 and brought the dressing-gown. Valerie took off her
combing-wrapper;<br>
 she was in her shift, and she wriggled into the dressing-gown
like a<br>
 snake into a clump of grass.</p>

<p>"Madame is not at home?"</p>

<p>"What a question!" said Valerie.--"Come, tell me, my big puss,
have<br>
 <i>Rives Gauches</i> gone down?"</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"They have raised the price of the house?"</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"You fancy that you are not the father of our little
Crevel?"</p>

<p>"What nonsense!" replied he, sure of his paternity.</p>

<p>"On my honor, I give it up!" said Madame Marneffe. "If I am
expected<br>
 to extract my friend's woes as you pull the cork out of a bottle
of<br>
 Bordeaux, I let it alone.--Go away, you bore me."</p>

<p>"It is nothing," said Crevel. "I must find two hundred
thousand francs<br>
 in two hours."</p>

<p>"Oh, you can easily get them.--I have not spent the fifty
thousand<br>
 francs we got out of Hulot for that report, and I can ask Henri
for<br>
 fifty thousand--"</p>

<p>"Henri--it is always Henri!" exclaimed Crevel.</p>

<p>"And do you suppose, you great baby of a Machiavelli, that I
will cast<br>
 off Henri? Would France disarm her fleet?--Henri! why, he is a
dagger<br>
 in a sheath hanging on a nail. That boy serves as a
weather-glass to<br>
 show me if you love me--and you don't love me this morning."</p>

<p>"I don't love you, Valerie?" cried Crevel. "I love you as much
as a<br>
 million."</p>

<p>"That is not nearly enough!" cried she, jumping on to Crevel's
knee,<br>
 and throwing both arms round his neck as if it were a peg to
hang on<br>
 by. "I want to be loved as much as ten millions, as much as all
the<br>
 gold in the world, and more to that. Henri would never wait a
minute<br>
 before telling me all he had on his mind. What is it, my great
pet?<br>
 Have it out. Make a clean breast of it to your own little
duck!"</p>

<p>And she swept her hair over Crevel's face, while she jestingly
pulled<br>
 his nose.</p>

<p>"Can a man with a nose like that," she went on, "have any
secrets from<br>
 his <i>Vava--lele--ririe</i>?"</p>

<p>And at the <i>Vava</i> she tweaked his nose to the right; at
<i>lele</i> it went<br>
 to the left; at <i>ririe</i> she nipped it straight again.</p>

<p>"Well, I have just seen--" Crevel stopped and looked at
Madame<br>
 Marneffe.</p>

<p>"Valerie, my treasure, promise me on your honor--ours, you
know?--not<br>
 to repeat a single word of what I tell you."</p>

<p>"Of course, Mayor, we know all about that. One hand
up--so--and one<br>
 foot--so!" And she put herself in an attitude which, to use
Rabelais'<br>
 phrase, stripped Crevel bare from his brain to his heels, so
quaint<br>
 and delicious was the nudity revealed through the light film of
lawn.</p>

<p>"I have just seen virtue in despair."</p>

<p>"Can despair possess virtue?" said she, nodding gravely and
crossing<br>
 her arms like Napoleon.</p>

<p>"It is poor Madame Hulot. She wants two hundred thousand
francs, or<br>
 else Marshal Hulot and old Johann Fischer will blow their brains
out;<br>
 and as you, my little Duchess, are partly at the bottom of
the<br>
 mischief, I am going to patch matters up. She is a saintly
creature, I<br>
 know her well; she will repay you every penny."</p>

<p>At the name of Hulot, at the words two hundred thousand
francs, a<br>
 gleam from Valerie's eyes flashed from between her long eyelids
like<br>
 the flame of a cannon through the smoke.</p>

<p>"What did the old thing do to move you to compassion? Did she
show you<br>
 --what?--her--her religion?"</p>

<p>"Do not make game of her, sweetheart; she is a very saintly, a
very<br>
 noble and pious woman, worthy of all respect."</p>

<p>"Am I not worthy of respect then, heh?" answered Valerie, with
a<br>
 threatening gaze at Crevel.</p>

<p>"I never said so," replied he, understanding that the praise
of virtue<br>
 might not be gratifying to Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>"I am pious too," Valerie went on, taking her seat in an
armchair;<br>
 "but I do not make a trade of my religion. I go to church in
secret."</p>

<p>She sat in silence, and paid no further heed to Crevel. He,
extremely<br>
 ill at ease, came to stand in front of the chair into which
Valerie<br>
 had thrown herself, and saw her lost in the reflections he had
been so<br>
 foolish as to suggest.</p>

<p>"Valerie, my little Angel!"</p>

<p>Utter silence. A highly problematical tear was furtively
dashed away.</p>

<p>"One word, my little duck?"</p>

<p>"Monsieur!"</p>

<p>"What are you thinking of, my darling?"</p>

<p>"Oh, Monsieur Crevel, I was thinking of the day of my first
communion!<br>
 How pretty I was! How pure, how saintly!--immaculate!--Oh! if
any one<br>
 had come to my mother and said, 'Your daughter will be a hussy,
and<br>
 unfaithful to her husband; one day a police-officer will find
her in a<br>
 disreputable house; she will sell herself to a Crevel to cheat a
Hulot<br>
 --two horrible old men--' Poof! horrible--she would have died
before<br>
 the end of the sentence, she was so fond of me, poor
dear!--"</p>

<p>"Nay, be calm."</p>

<p>"You cannot think how well a woman must love a man before she
can<br>
 silence the remorse that gnaws at the heart of an adulterous
wife. I<br>
 am quite sorry that Reine is not here; she would have told you
that<br>
 she found me this morning praying with tears in my eyes. I,
Monsieur<br>
 Crevel, for my part, do not make a mockery of religion. Have you
ever<br>
 heard me say a word I ought not on such a subject?"</p>

<p>Crevel shook his head in negation.</p>

<p>"I will never allow it to be mentioned in my presence. I can
make fun<br>
 of anything under the sun: Kings, politics, finance, everything
that<br>
 is sacred in the eyes of the world--judges, matrimony, and
love--old<br>
 men and maidens. But the Church and God!--There I draw the
line.--I<br>
 know I am wicked; I am sacrificing my future life to you. And
you have<br>
 no conception of the immensity of my love."</p>

<p>Crevel clasped his hands.</p>

<p>"No, unless you could see into my heart, and fathom the depth
of my<br>
 conviction so as to know the extent of my sacrifice! I feel in
me the<br>
 making of a Magdalen.--And see how respectfully I treat the
priests;<br>
 think of the gifts I make to the Church! My mother brought me up
in<br>
 the Catholic Faith, and I know what is meant by God! It is to
sinners<br>
 like us that His voice is most awful."</p>

<p>Valerie wiped away two tears that trickled down her cheeks.
Crevel was<br>
 in dismay. Madame Marneffe stood up in her excitement.</p>

<p>"Be calm, my darling--you alarm me!"</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe fell on her knees.</p>

<p>"Dear Heaven! I am not bad all through!" she cried, clasping
her<br>
 hands. "Vouchsafe to rescue Thy wandering lamb, strike her,
crush her,<br>
 snatch her from foul and adulterous hands, and how gladly she
will<br>
 nestle on Thy shoulder! How willingly she will return to the
fold!"</p>

<p>She got up and looked at Crevel; her colorless eyes frightened
him.</p>

<p>"Yes, Crevel, and, do you know? I, too, am frightened
sometimes. The<br>
 justice of God is exerted in this nether world as well as in the
next.<br>
 What mercy can I expect at God's hands? His vengeance overtakes
the<br>
 guilty in many ways; it assumes every aspect of disaster. That
is what<br>
 my mother told me on her death-bed, speaking of her own old
age.--But<br>
 if I should lose you, she added, hugging Crevel with a sort of
savage<br>
 frenzy--"oh! I should die!"</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe released Crevel, knelt down again at the
armchair,<br>
 folded her hands--and in what a bewitching attitude!--and
with<br>
 incredible fervor poured out the following prayer:--</p>

<p>"And thou, Saint Valerie, my patron saint, why dost thou so
rarely<br>
 visit the pillow of her who was intrusted to thy care? Oh, come
this<br>
 evening, as thou didst this morning, to inspire me with holy
thoughts,<br>
 and I will quit the path of sin; like the Magdalen, I will give
up<br>
 deluding joys and the false glitter of the world, even the man I
love<br>
 so well--"</p>

<p>"My precious duck!"</p>

<p>"No more of the 'precious duck,' monsieur!" said she, turning
round<br>
 like a virtuous wife, her eyes full of tears, but dignified,
cold, and<br>
 indifferent.</p>

<p>"Leave me," she went on, pushing him from her. "What is my
duty? To<br>
 belong wholly to my husband.--He is a dying man, and what am I
doing?<br>
 Deceiving him on the edge of the grave. He believes your child
to be<br>
 his. I will tell him the truth, and begin by securing his
pardon<br>
 before I ask for God's.--We must part. Good-bye, Monsieur
Crevel," and<br>
 she stood up to offer him an icy cold hand. "Good-bye, my
friend; we<br>
 shall meet no more till we meet in a better world.--You have to
thank<br>
 me for some enjoyment, criminal indeed; now I want--oh yes, I
shall<br>
 have your esteem."</p>

<p><br>
 Crevel was weeping bitter tears.</p>

<p>"You great pumpkin!" she exclaimed, with an infernal peal of
laughter.<br>
 "That is how your pious women go about it to drag from you a
plum of<br>
 two hundred thousand francs. And you, who talk of the Marechal
de<br>
 Richelieu, the prototype of Lovelace, you could be taken in by
such a<br>
 stale trick as that! I could get hundreds of thousands of francs
out<br>
 of you any day, if I chose, you old ninny!--Keep your money! If
you<br>
 have more than you know what to do with, it is mine. If you give
two<br>
 sous to that 'respectable' woman, who is pious forsooth, because
she<br>
 is fifty-six years of age, we shall never meet again, and you
may take<br>
 her for your mistress! You could come back to me next day
bruised all<br>
 over from her bony caresses and sodden with her tears, and sick
of her<br>
 little barmaid's caps and her whimpering, which must turn her
favors<br>
 into showers--"</p>

<p>"In point of fact," said Crevel, "two hundred thousand francs
is a<br>
 round sum of money."</p>

<p>"They have fine appetites, have the goody sort! By the poker!
they<br>
 sell their sermons dearer than we sell the rarest and realest
thing on<br>
 earth--pleasure.--And they can spin a yarn! There, I know them.
I have<br>
 seen plenty in my mother's house. They think everything is
allowable<br>
 for the Church and for--Really, my dear love, you ought to be
ashamed<br>
 of yourself--for you are not so open-handed! You have not given
me two<br>
 hundred thousand francs all told!"</p>

<p>"Oh yes," said Crevel, "your little house will cost as much as
that."</p>

<p>"Then you have four hundred thousand francs?" said she
thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"Then, sir, you meant to lend that old horror the two hundred
thousand<br>
 francs due for my hotel? What a crime, what high treason!"</p>

<p>"Only listen to me."</p>

<p>"If you were giving the money to some idiotic philanthropic
scheme,<br>
 you would be regarded as a coming man," she went on, with
increasing<br>
 eagerness, "and I should be the first to advise it; for you are
too<br>
 simple to write a big political book that might make you famous;
as<br>
 for style, you have not enough to butter a pamphlet; but you
might do<br>
 as other men do who are in your predicament, and who get a halo
of<br>
 glory about their name by putting it at the top of some social,
or<br>
 moral, or general, or national enterprise. Benevolence is out of
date,<br>
 quite vulgar. Providing for old offenders, and making them
more<br>
 comfortable than the poor devils who are honest, is played out.
What I<br>
 should like to see is some invention of your own with an
endowment of<br>
 two hundred thousand francs--something difficult and really
useful.<br>
 Then you would be talked about as a man of mark, a Montyon, and
I<br>
 should be very proud of you!</p>

<p>"But as to throwing two hundred thousand francs into a
holy-water<br>
 shell, or lending them to a bigot--cast off by her husband, and
who<br>
 knows why? there is always some reason: does any one cast me
off, I<br>
 ask you?--is a piece of idiocy which in our days could only come
into<br>
 the head of a retired perfumer. It reeks of the counter. You
would not<br>
 dare look at yourself in the glass two days after.</p>

<p>"Go and pay the money in where it will be safe--run, fly; I
will not<br>
 admit you again without the receipt in your hand. Go, as fast
and soon<br>
 as you can!"</p>

<p>She pushed Crevel out of the room by the shoulders, seeing
avarice<br>
 blossoming in his face once more. When she heard the outer door
shut,<br>
 she exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Then Lisbeth is revenged over and over again! What a pity
that she is<br>
 at her old Marshal's now! We would have had a good laugh! So
that old<br>
 woman wants to take the bread out of my mouth. I will startle
her a<br>
 little!"</p>

<p>Marshal Hulot, being obliged to live in a style suited to the
highest<br>
 military rank, had taken a handsome house in the Rue du
Mont-Parnasse,<br>
 where there are three or four princely residences. Though he
rented<br>
 the whole house, he inhabited only the ground floor. When
Lisbeth went<br>
 to keep house for him, she at once wished to let the first
floor,<br>
 which, as she said, would pay the whole rent, so that the Count
would<br>
 live almost rent-free; but the old soldier would not hear of
it.</p>

<p>For some months past the Marshal had had many sad thoughts. He
had<br>
 guessed how miserably poor his sister-in-law was, and suspected
her<br>
 griefs without understanding their cause. The old man, so
cheerful in<br>
 his deafness, became taciturn; he could not help thinking that
his<br>
 house would one day be a refuge for the Baroness and her
daughter; and<br>
 it was for them that he kept the first floor. The smallness of
his<br>
 fortune was so well known at headquarters, that the War
Minister, the<br>
 Prince de Wissembourg, begged his old comrade to accept a sum of
money<br>
 for his household expenses. This sum the Marshal spent in
furnishing<br>
 the ground floor, which was in every way suitable; for, as he
said, he<br>
 would not accept the Marshal's baton to walk the streets
with.</p>

<p>The house had belonged to a senator under the Empire, and the
ground<br>
 floor drawing-rooms had been very magnificently fitted with
carved<br>
 wood, white-and-gold, still in very good preservation. The
Marshal had<br>
 found some good old furniture in the same style; in the
coach-house he<br>
 had a carriage with two batons in saltire on the panels; and
when he<br>
 was expected to appear in full fig, at the Minister's, at
the<br>
 Tuileries, for some ceremony or high festival, he hired horses
for the<br>
 job.</p>

<p>His servant for more than thirty years was an old soldier of
sixty,<br>
 whose sister was the cook, so he had saved ten thousand francs,
adding<br>
 it by degrees to a little hoard he intended for Hortense. Every
day<br>
 the old man walked along the boulevard, from the Rue du
Mont-Parnasse<br>
 to the Rue Plumet; and every pensioner as he passed stood at<br>
 attention, without fail, to salute him: then the Marshal
rewarded the<br>
 veteran with a smile.</p>

<p>"Who is the man you always stand at attention to salute?" said
a young<br>
 workman one day to an old captain and pensioner.</p>

<p>"I will tell you, boy," replied the officer.</p>

<p>The "boy" stood resigned, as a man does to listen to an old
gossip.</p>

<p>"In 1809," said the captain, "we were covering the flank of
the main<br>
 army, marching on Vienna under the Emperor's command. We came to
a<br>
 bridge defended by three batteries of cannon, one above another,
on a<br>
 sort of cliff; three redoubts like three shelves, and commanding
the<br>
 bridge. We were under Marshal Massena. That man whom you see
there was<br>
 Colonel of the Grenadier Guards, and I was one of them. Our
columns<br>
 held one bank of the river, the batteries were on the other.
Three<br>
 times they tried for the bridge, and three times they were
driven<br>
 back. 'Go and find Hulot!' said the Marshal; 'nobody but he and
his<br>
 men can bolt that morsel.' So we came. The General, who was
just<br>
 retiring from the bridge, stopped Hulot under fire, to tell him
how to<br>
 do it, and he was in the way. 'I don't want advice, but room to
pass,'<br>
 said our General coolly, marching across at the head of his men.
And<br>
 then, rattle, thirty guns raking us at once."</p>

<p>"By Heaven!" cried the workman, "that accounts for some of
these<br>
 crutches!"</p>

<p>"And if you, like me, my boy, had heard those words so quietly
spoken,<br>
 you would bow before that man down to the ground! It is not so
famous<br>
 as Arcole, but perhaps it was finer. We followed Hulot at the
double,<br>
 right up to those batteries. All honor to those we left there!"
and<br>
 the old man lifted his hat. "The Austrians were amazed at the
dash of<br>
 it.--The Emperor made the man you saw a Count; he honored us all
by<br>
 honoring our leader; and the King of to-day was very right to
make him<br>
 a Marshal."</p>

<p>"Hurrah for the Marshal!" cried the workman.</p>

<p>"Oh, you may shout--shout away! The Marshal is as deaf as a
post from<br>
 the roar of cannon."</p>

<p>This anecdote may give some idea of the respect with which
the<br>
 <i>Invalides</i> regarded Marshal Hulot, whose Republican
proclivities<br>
 secured him the popular sympathy of the whole quarter of the
town.</p>

<p>Sorrow taking hold on a spirit so calm and strict and noble,
was a<br>
 heart-breaking spectacle. The Baroness could only tell lies,
with a<br>
 woman's ingenuity, to conceal the whole dreadful truth from
her<br>
 brother-in-law.</p>

<p>In the course of this miserable morning, the Marshal, who,
like all<br>
 old men, slept but little, had extracted from Lisbeth full
particulars<br>
 as to his brother's situation, promising to marry her as the
reward of<br>
 her revelations. Any one can imagine with what glee the old
maid<br>
 allowed the secrets to be dragged from her which she had been
dying to<br>
 tell ever since she had come into the house; for by this means
she<br>
 made her marriage more certain.</p>

<p>"Your brother is incorrigible!" Lisbeth shouted into the
Marshal's<br>
 best ear.</p>

<p>Her strong, clear tones enabled her to talk to him, but she
wore out<br>
 her lungs, so anxious was she to prove to her future husband
that to<br>
 her he would never be deaf.</p>

<p>"He has had three mistresses," said the old man, "and his wife
was an<br>
 Adeline! Poor Adeline!"</p>

<p>"If you will take my advice," shrieked Lisbeth, "you will use
your<br>
 influence with the Prince de Wissembourg to secure her some
suitable<br>
 appointment. She will need it, for the Baron's pay is pledged
for<br>
 three years."</p>

<p>"I will go to the War Office," said he, "and see the Prince,
to find<br>
 out what he thinks of my brother, and ask for his interest to
help my<br>
 sister. Think of some place that is fit for her."</p>

<p>"The charitable ladies of Paris, in concert with the
Archbishop, have<br>
 formed various beneficent associations; they employ
superintendents,<br>
 very decently paid, whose business it is to seek out cases of
real<br>
 want. Such an occupation would exactly suit dear Adeline; it
would be<br>
 work after her own heart."</p>

<p>"Send to order the horses," said the Marshal. "I will go and
dress. I<br>
 will drive to Neuilly if necessary."</p>

<p>"How fond he is of her! She will always cross my path wherever
I<br>
 turn!" said Lisbeth to herself.</p>

<p>Lisbeth was already supreme in the house, but not with the
Marshal's<br>
 cognizance. She had struck terror into the three servants--for
she had<br>
 allowed herself a housemaid, and she exerted her old-maidish
energy in<br>
 taking stock of everything, examining everything, and arranging
in<br>
 every respect for the comfort of her dear Marshal. Lisbeth,
quite as<br>
 Republican as he could be, pleased him by her democratic
opinions, and<br>
 she flattered him with amazing dexterity; for the last fortnight
the<br>
 old man, whose house was better kept, and who was cared for as a
child<br>
 by its mother, had begun to regard Lisbeth as a part of what he
had<br>
 dreamed of.</p>

<p>"My dear Marshal," she shouted, following him out on to the
steps,<br>
 "pull up the windows, do not sit in a draught, to oblige
me!"</p>

<p>The Marshal, who had never been so cosseted in his life, went
off<br>
 smiling at Lisbeth, though his heart was aching.</p>

<p>At the same hour Baron Hulot was quitting the War Office to
call on<br>
 his chief, Marshal the Prince de Wissembourg, who had sent for
him.<br>
 Though there was nothing extraordinary in one of the Generals on
the<br>
 Board being sent for, Hulot's conscience was so uneasy that he
fancied<br>
 he saw a cold and sinister expression in Mitouflet's face.</p>

<p>"Mitouflet, how is the Prince?" he asked, locking the door of
his<br>
 private room and following the messenger who led the way.</p>

<p>"He must have a crow to pluck with you, Monsieur le Baron,"
replied<br>
 the man, "for his face is set at stormy."</p>

<p>Hulot turned pale, and said no more; he crossed the anteroom
and<br>
 reception rooms, and, with a violently beating heart, found
himself at<br>
 the door of the Prince's private study.</p>

<p>The chief, at this time seventy years old, with perfectly
white hair,<br>
 and the tanned complexion of a soldier of that age,
commanded<br>
 attention by a brow so vast that imagination saw in it a field
of<br>
 battle. Under this dome, crowned with snow, sparkled a pair of
eyes,<br>
 of the Napoleon blue, usually sad-looking and full of bitter
thoughts<br>
 and regrets, their fire overshadowed by the penthouse of the
strongly<br>
 projecting brow. This man, Bernadotte's rival, had hoped to find
his<br>
 seat on a throne. But those eyes could flash formidable
lightnings<br>
 when they expressed strong feelings.</p>

<p>Then, his voice, always somewhat hollow, rang with strident
tones.<br>
 When he was angry, the Prince was a soldier once more; he spoke
the<br>
 language of Lieutenant Cottin; he spared nothing--nobody. Hulot
d'Ervy<br>
 found the old lion, his hair shaggy like a mane, standing by
the<br>
 fireplace, his brows knit, his back against the mantel-shelf,
and his<br>
 eyes apparently fixed on vacancy.</p>

<p>"Here! At your orders, Prince!" said Hulot, affecting a
graceful ease<br>
 of manner.</p>

<p>The Marshal looked hard at the Baron, without saying a word,
during<br>
 the time it took him to come from the door to within a few steps
of<br>
 where the chief stood. This leaden stare was like the eye of
God;<br>
 Hulot could not meet it; he looked down in confusion.</p>

<p>"He knows everything!" said he to himself.</p>

<p>"Does your conscience tell you nothing?" asked the Marshal, in
his<br>
 deep, hollow tones.</p>

<p>"It tells me, sir, that I have been wrong, no doubt, in
ordering<br>
 <i>razzias</i> in Algeria without referring the matter to you.
At my age,<br>
 and with my tastes, after forty-five years of service, I have
no<br>
 fortune.--You know the principles of the four hundred elect<br>
 representatives of France. Those gentlemen are envious of
every<br>
 distinction; they have pared down even the Ministers' pay--that
says<br>
 everything! Ask them for money for an old servant!--What can
you<br>
 expect of men who pay a whole class so badly as they pay the<br>
 Government legal officials?--who give thirty sous a day to
the<br>
 laborers on the works at Toulon, when it is a physical
impossibility<br>
 to live there and keep a family on less than forty sous?--who
never<br>
 think of the atrocity of giving salaries of six hundred francs,
up to<br>
 a thousand or twelve hundred perhaps, to clerks living in Paris;
and<br>
 who want to secure our places for themselves as soon as the pay
rises<br>
 to forty thousand?--who, finally, refuse to restore to the Crown
a<br>
 piece of Crown property confiscated from the Crown in
1830--property<br>
 acquired, too, by Louis XVI. out of his privy purse!--If you had
no<br>
 private fortune, Prince, you would be left high and dry, like
my<br>
 brother, with your pay and not another sou, and no thought of
your<br>
 having saved the army, and me with it, in the boggy plains of
Poland."</p>

<p>"You have robbed the State! You have made yourself liable to
be<br>
 brought before the bench at Assizes," said the Marshal, "like
that<br>
 clerk of the Treasury! And you take this, monsieur, with such
levity."</p>

<p>"But there is a great difference, monseigneur!" cried the
baron. "Have<br>
 I dipped my hands into a cash box intrusted to my care?"</p>

<p>"When a man of your rank commits such an infamous crime," said
the<br>
 Marshal, "he is doubly guilty if he does it clumsily. You
have<br>
 compromised the honor of our official administration, which
hitherto<br>
 has been the purest in Europe!--And all for two hundred
thousand<br>
 francs and a hussy!" said the Marshal, in a terrible voice. "You
are a<br>
 Councillor of State--and a private soldier who sells
anything<br>
 belonging to his regiment is punished with death! Here is a
story told<br>
 to me one day by Colonel Pourin of the Second Lancers. At
Saverne, one<br>
 of his men fell in love with a little Alsatian girl who had a
fancy<br>
 for a shawl. The jade teased this poor devil of a lancer so<br>
 effectually, that though he could show twenty years' service,
and was<br>
 about to be promoted to be quartermaster--the pride of the
regiment--<br>
 to buy this shawl he sold some of his company's kit.--Do you
know what<br>
 this lancer did, Baron d'Ervy? He swallowed some window-glass
after<br>
 pounding it down, and died in eleven hours, of an illness,
in<br>
 hospital.--Try, if you please, to die of apoplexy, that we may
not see<br>
 you dishonored."</p>

<p>Hulot looked with haggard eyes at the old warrior; and the
Prince,<br>
 reading the look which betrayed the coward, felt a flush rise to
his<br>
 cheeks; his eyes flamed.</p>

<p>"Will you, sir, abandon me?" Hulot stammered.</p>

<p>Marshal Hulot, hearing that only his brother was with the
Minister,<br>
 ventured at this juncture to come in, and, like all deaf people,
went<br>
 straight up to the Prince.</p>

<p>"Oh," cried the hero of Poland, "I know what you are here for,
my old<br>
 friend! But we can do nothing."</p>

<p>"Do nothing!" echoed Marshal Hulot, who had heard only the
last word.</p>

<p>"Nothing; you have come to intercede for your brother. But do
you know<br>
 what your brother is?"</p>

<p>"My brother?" asked the deaf man.</p>

<p>"Yes, he is a damned infernal blackguard, and unworthy of
you."</p>

<p>The Marshal in his rage shot from his eyes those fulminating
fires<br>
 which, like Napoleon's, broke a man's will and judgment.</p>

<p>"You lie, Cottin!" said Marshal Hulot, turning white. "Throw
down your<br>
 baton as I throw mine! I am ready."</p>

<p>The Prince went up to his old comrade, looked him in the face,
and<br>
 shouted in his ear as he grasped his hand:</p>

<p>"Are you a man?"</p>

<p>"You will see that I am."</p>

<p>"Well, then, pull yourself together! You must face the
worst<br>
 misfortune that can befall you."</p>

<p>The Prince turned round, took some papers from the table, and
placed<br>
 them in the Marshal's hands, saying, "Read that."</p>

<p>The Comte de Forzheim read the following letter, which lay<br>
 uppermost:--</p>

<p>"To his Excellency the President of the Council.</p>

<p><i>"Private and Confidential.</i></p>

<p>"ALGIERS.</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"MY DEAR PRINCE,--We have a very ugly business on our hands,
as<br>
 you will see by the accompanying documents.</p>

<p>"The story, briefly told, is this: Baron Hulot d'Ervy sent out
to<br>
 the province of Oran an uncle of his as a broker in grain
and<br>
 forage, and gave him an accomplice in the person of a
storekeeper.<br>
 This storekeeper, to curry favor, has made a confession, and<br>
 finally made his escape. The Public Prosecutor took the matter
up<br>
 very thoroughly, seeing, as he supposed, that only two
inferior<br>
 agents were implicated; but Johann Fischer, uncle to your Chief
of<br>
 the Commissariat Department, finding that he was to be brought
up<br>
 at the Assizes, stabbed himself in prison with a nail.</p>

<p>"That would have been the end of the matter if this worthy
and<br>
 honest man, deceived, it would seem, by his agent and by his<br>
 nephew, had not thought proper to write to Baron Hulot. This<br>
 letter, seized as a document, so greatly surprised the
Public<br>
 Prosecutor, that he came to see me. Now, the arrest and
public<br>
 trial of a Councillor of State would be such a terrible
thing--of<br>
 a man high in office too, who has a good record for loyal
service<br>
 --for after the Beresina, it was he who saved us all by<br>
 reorganizing the administration--that I desired to have all
the<br>
 papers sent to me.</p>

<p>"Is the matter to take its course? Now that the principal
agent is<br>
 dead, will it not be better to smother up the affair and
sentence<br>
 the storekeeper in default?</p>

<p>"The Public Prosecutor has consented to my forwarding the<br>
 documents for your perusal; the Baron Hulot d'Ervy, being
resident<br>
 in Paris, the proceedings will lie with your Supreme Court.
We<br>
 have hit on this rather shabby way of ridding ourselves of
the<br>
 difficulty for the moment.</p>

<p>"Only, my dear Marshal, decide quickly. This miserable
business is<br>
 too much talked about already, and it will do as much harm to
us<br>
 as to you all if the name of the principal culprit--known at<br>
 present only to the Public Prosecutor, the examining judge,
and<br>
 myself--should happen to leak out."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>At this point the letter fell from Marshal Hulot's hands; he
looked at<br>
 his brother; he saw that there was no need to examine the
evidence.<br>
 But he looked for Johann Fischer's letter, and after reading it
at a<br>
 glance, held it out to Hector:--</p>

<p><br>
 "FROM THE PRISON AT ORAN.</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"DEAR NEPHEW,--When you read this letter, I shall have ceased
to<br>
 live.</p>

<p>"Be quite easy, no proof can be found to incriminate you. When
I<br>
 am dead and your Jesuit of a Chardin fled, the trial must<br>
 collapse. The face of our Adeline, made so happy by you,
makes<br>
 death easy to me. Now you need not send the two hundred
thousand<br>
 francs. Good-bye.</p>

<p>"This letter will be delivered by a prisoner for a short term
whom<br>
 I can trust, I believe.</p>

<p>"JOHANN FISCHER."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 "I beg your pardon," said Marshal Hulot to the Prince de
Wissembourg<br>
 with pathetic pride.</p>

<p>"Come, come, say <i>tu</i>, not the formal <i>vous</i>,"
replied the Minister,<br>
 clasping his old friend's hand. "The poor lancer killed no one
but<br>
 himself," he added, with a thunderous look at Hulot d'Ervy.</p>

<p><br>
 "How much have you had?" said the Comte de Forzheim to his
brother.</p>

<p>"Two hundred thousand francs."</p>

<p>"My dear friend," said the Count, addressing the Minister,
"you shall<br>
 have the two hundred thousand francs within forty-eight hours.
It<br>
 shall never be said that a man bearing the name of Hulot has
wronged<br>
 the public treasury of a single sou."</p>

<p>"What nonsense!" said the Prince. "I know where the money is,
and I<br>
 can get it back.--Send in your resignation and ask for your
pension!"<br>
 he went on, sending a double sheet of foolscap flying across to
where<br>
 the Councillor of State had sat down by the table, for his legs
gave<br>
 way under him. "To bring you to trial would disgrace us all. I
have<br>
 already obtained from the superior Board their sanction to this
line<br>
 of action. Since you can accept life with dishonor--in my
opinion the<br>
 last degradation--you will get the pension you have earned. Only
take<br>
 care to be forgotten."</p>

<p>The Minister rang.</p>

<p>"Is Marneffe, the head-clerk, out there?"</p>

<p>"Yes, monseigneur."</p>

<p>"Show him in!"</p>

<p>"You," said the Minister as Marneffe came in, "you and your
wife have<br>
 wittingly and intentionally ruined the Baron d'Ervy whom you
see."</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Ministre, I beg your pardon. We are very poor. I
have<br>
 nothing to live on but my pay, and I have two children, and the
one<br>
 that is coming will have been brought into the family by
Monsieur le<br>
 Baron."</p>

<p>"What a villain he looks!" said the Prince, pointing to
Marneffe and<br>
 addressing Marshal Hulot.--"No more of Sganarelle speeches," he
went<br>
 on; "you will disgorge two hundred thousand francs, or be packed
off<br>
 to Algiers."</p>

<p>"But, Monsieur le Ministre, you do not know my wife. She has
spent it<br>
 all. Monsieur le Baron asked six persons to dinner every
evening.--<br>
 Fifty thousand francs a year are spent in my house."</p>

<p>"Leave the room!" said the Minister, in the formidable tones
that had<br>
 given the word to charge in battle. "You will have notice of
your<br>
 transfer within two hours. Go!"</p>

<p>"I prefer to send in my resignation," said Marneffe
insolently. "For<br>
 it is too much to be what I am already, and thrashed into the
bargain.<br>
 That would not satisfy me at all."</p>

<p>And he left the room.</p>

<p>"What an impudent scoundrel!" said the Prince.</p>

<p>Marshal Hulot, who had stood up throughout this scene, as pale
as a<br>
 corpse, studying his brother out of the corner of his eye, went
up to<br>
 the Prince, and took his hand, repeating:</p>

<p>"In forty-eight hours the pecuniary mischief shall be
repaired; but<br>
 honor!--Good-bye, Marshal. It is the last shot that kills. Yes,
I<br>
 shall die of it!" he said in his ear.</p>

<p>"What the devil brought you here this morning?" said the
Prince, much<br>
 moved.</p>

<p>"I came to see what can be done for his wife," replied the
Count,<br>
 pointing to his brother. "She is wanting bread--especially
now!"</p>

<p>"He has his pension."</p>

<p>"It is pledged!"</p>

<p>"The Devil must possess such a man," said the Prince, with a
shrug.<br>
 "What philtre do those baggages give you to rob you of your
wits?" he<br>
 went on to Hulot d'Ervy. "How could you--you, who know the
precise<br>
 details with which in French offices everything is written down
at<br>
 full length, consuming reams of paper to certify to the receipt
or<br>
 outlay of a few centimes--you, who have so often complained that
a<br>
 hundred signatures are needed for a mere trifle, to discharge
a<br>
 soldier, to buy a curry-comb--how could you hope to conceal a
theft<br>
 for any length of time? To say nothing of the newspapers, and
the<br>
 envious, and the people who would like to steal!--those women
must rob<br>
 you of your common-sense! Do they cover your eyes with
walnut-shells?<br>
 or are you yourself made of different stuff from us?--You ought
to<br>
 have left the office as soon as you found that you were no
longer a<br>
 man, but a temperament. If you have complicated your crime with
such<br>
 gross folly, you will end--I will not say where----"</p>

<p>"Promise me, Cottin, that you will do what you can for her,"
said the<br>
 Marshal, who heard nothing, and was still thinking of his
sister-in-<br>
 law.</p>

<p>"Depend on me,!" said the Minister.</p>

<p>"Thank you, and good-bye then!--Come, monsieur," he said to
his<br>
 brother.</p>

<p>The Prince looked with apparent calmness at the two brothers,
so<br>
 different in their demeanor, conduct, and character--the brave
man and<br>
 the coward, the ascetic and the profligate, the honest man and
the<br>
 peculator--and he said to himself:</p>

<p>"That mean creature will not have courage to die! And my poor
Hulot,<br>
 such an honest fellow! has death in his knapsack, I know!"</p>

<p>He sat down again in his big chair and went on reading the
despatches<br>
 from Africa with a look characteristic at once of the coolness
of a<br>
 leader and of the pity roused by the sight of a battle-field!
For in<br>
 reality no one is so humane as a soldier, stern as he may seem
in the<br>
 icy determination acquired by the habit of fighting, and so
absolutely<br>
 essential in the battle-field.</p>

<p>Next morning some of the newspapers contained, under various
headings,<br>
 the following paragraphs:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"Monsieur le Baron Hulot d'Ervy has applied for his
retiring<br>
 pension. The unsatisfactory state of the Algerian exchequer,
which<br>
 has come out in consequence of the death and disappearance of
two<br>
 employes, has had some share in this distinguished
official's<br>
 decision. On hearing of the delinquencies of the agents whom
he<br>
 had unfortunately trusted, Monsieur le Baron Hulot had a
paralytic<br>
 stroke in the War Minister's private room.</p>

<p>"Monsieur Hulot d'Ervy, brother to the Marshal Comte de
Forzheim,<br>
 has been forty-five years in the service. His determination
has<br>
 been vainly opposed, and is greatly regretted by all who
know<br>
 Monsieur Hulot, whose private virtues are as conspicuous as
his<br>
 administrative capacity. No one can have forgotten the
devoted<br>
 conduct of the Commissary General of the Imperial Guard at
Warsaw,<br>
 or the marvelous promptitude with which he organized supplies
for<br>
 the various sections of the army so suddenly required by
Napoleon<br>
 in 1815.</p>

<p>"One more of the heroes of the Empire is retiring from the
stage.<br>
 Monsieur le Baron Hulot has never ceased, since 1830, to be one
of<br>
 the guiding lights of the State Council and of the War
Office."</p>

<p>"ALGIERS.--The case known as the forage supply case, to which
some<br>
 of our contemporaries have given absurd prominence, has been<br>
 closed by the death of the chief culprit. Johann Wisch has<br>
 committed suicide in his cell; his accomplice, who had
absconded,<br>
 will be sentenced in default.</p>

<p>"Wisch, formerly an army contractor, was an honest man and
highly<br>
 respected, who could not survive the idea of having been the
dupe<br>
 of Chardin, the storekeeper who has disappeared."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>And in the <i>Paris News</i> the following paragraph
appeared:</p>

<blockquote>
<p><br>
 "Monsieur le Marechal the Minister of War, to prevent the<br>
 recurrence of such scandals for the future, has arranged for
a<br>
 regular Commissariat office in Africa. A head-clerk in the
War<br>
 Office, Monsieur Marneffe, is spoken of as likely to be
appointed<br>
 to the post of director."</p>

<p> </p>

<p>"The office vacated by Baron Hulot is the object of much
ambition.<br>
 The appointment is promised, it is said, to Monsieur le
Comte<br>
 Martial de la Roche-Hugon, Deputy, brother-in-law to Monsieur
le<br>
 Comte de Rastignac. Monsieur Massol, Master of Appeals, will
fill<br>
 his seat on the Council of State, and Monsieur Claude Vignon<br>
 becomes Master of Appeals."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Of all kinds of false gossip, the most dangerous for the
Opposition<br>
 newspapers is the official bogus paragraph. However keen
journalists<br>
 may be, they are sometimes the voluntary or involuntary dupes of
the<br>
 cleverness of those who have risen from the ranks of the Press,
like<br>
 Claude Vignon, to the higher realms of power. The newspaper can
only<br>
 be circumvented by the journalist. It may be said, as a parody
on a<br>
 line by Voltaire:</p>

<p><br>
 "The Paris news is never what the foolish folk believe."</p>

<p>Marshal Hulot drove home with his brother, who took the front
seat,<br>
 respectfully leaving the whole of the back of the carriage to
his<br>
 senior. The two men spoke not a word. Hector was helpless. The
Marshal<br>
 was lost in thought, like a man who is collecting all his
strength,<br>
 and bracing himself to bear a crushing weight. On arriving at
his own<br>
 house, still without speaking, but by an imperious gesture,
he<br>
 beckoned his brother into his study. The Count had received from
the<br>
 Emperor Napoleon a splendid pair of pistols from the
Versailles<br>
 factory; he took the box, with its inscription. "<i>Given by the
Emperor<br>
 Napoleon to General Hulot</i>," out of his desk, and placing it
on the<br>
 top, he showed it to his brother, saying, "There is your
remedy."</p>

<p>Lisbeth, peeping through the chink of the door, flew down to
the<br>
 carriage and ordered the coachman to go as fast as he could
gallop to<br>
 the Rue Plumet. Within about twenty minutes she had brought
back<br>
 Adeline, whom she had told of the Marshal's threat to his
brother.</p>

<p>The Marshal, without looking at Hector, rang the bell for
his<br>
 factotum, the old soldier who had served him for thirty
years.</p>

<p>"Beau-Pied," said he, "fetch my notary, and Count Steinbock,
and my<br>
 niece Hortense, and the stockbroker to the Treasury. It is now
half-<br>
 past ten; they must all be here by twelve. Take hackney
cabs--and go<br>
 faster than <i>that</i>!" he added, a republican allusion which
in past<br>
 days had been often on his lips. And he put on the scowl that
had<br>
 brought his soldiers to attention when he was beating the broom
on the<br>
 heaths of Brittany in 1799. (See <i>Les Chouans.</i>)</p>

<p>"You shall be obeyed, Marechal," said Beau-Pied, with a
military<br>
 salute.</p>

<p>Still paying no heed to his brother, the old man came back
into his<br>
 study, took a key out of his desk, and opened a little malachite
box<br>
 mounted in steel, the gift of the Emperor Alexander.</p>

<p>By Napoleon's orders he had gone to restore to the Russian
Emperor the<br>
 private property seized at the battle of Dresden, in exchange
for<br>
 which Napoleon hoped to get back Vandamme. The Czar rewarded
General<br>
 Hulot very handsomely, giving him this casket, and saying that
he<br>
 hoped one day to show the same courtesy to the Emperor of the
French;<br>
 but he kept Vandamme. The Imperial arms of Russia were displayed
in<br>
 gold on the lid of the box, which was inlaid with gold.</p>

<p>The Marshal counted the bank-notes it contained; he had a
hundred and<br>
 fifty-two thousand francs. He saw this with satisfaction. At the
same<br>
 moment Madame Hulot came into the room in a state to touch the
heart<br>
 of the sternest judge. She flew into Hector's arms, looking<br>
 alternately with a crazy eye at the Marshal and at the case
of<br>
 pistols.</p>

<p>"What have you to say against your brother? What has my
husband done<br>
 to you?" said she, in such a voice that the Marshal heard
her.</p>

<p>"He has disgraced us all!" replied the Republican veteran, who
spoke<br>
 with a vehemence that reopened one of his old wounds. "He has
robbed<br>
 the Government! He has cast odium on my name, he makes me wish I
were<br>
 dead--he has killed me!--I have only strength enough left to
make<br>
 restitution!</p>

<p>"I have been abased before the Conde of the Republic, the man
I esteem<br>
 above all others, and to whom I unjustifiably gave the lie--the
Prince<br>
 of Wissembourg!--Is that nothing? That is the score his country
has<br>
 against him!"</p>

<p>He wiped away a tear.</p>

<p>"Now, as to his family," he went on. "He is robbing you of the
bread I<br>
 had saved for you, the fruit of thirty years' economy, of
the<br>
 privations of an old soldier! Here is what was intended for
you," and<br>
 he held up the bank-notes. "He has killed his Uncle Fischer, a
noble<br>
 and worthy son of Alsace who could not--as he can--endure the
thought<br>
 of a stain on his peasant's honor.</p>

<p>"To crown all, God, in His adorable clemency, had allowed him
to<br>
 choose an angel among women; he has had the unspeakable
happiness of<br>
 having an Adeline for his wife! And he has deceived her, he has
soaked<br>
 her in sorrows, he has neglected her for prostitutes, for
street-<br>
 hussies, for ballet-girls, actresses--Cadine, Josepha,
Marneffe!--And<br>
 that is the brother I treated as a son and made my pride!</p>

<p>"Go, wretched man; if you can accept the life of degradation
you have<br>
 made for yourself, leave my house! I have not the heart to curse
a<br>
 brother I have loved so well--I am as foolish about him as you
are,<br>
 Adeline--but never let me see him again. I forbid his attending
my<br>
 funeral or following me to the grave. Let him show the decency
of a<br>
 criminal if he can feel no remorse."</p>

<p>The Marshal, as pale as death, fell back on the settee,
exhausted by<br>
 his solemn speech. And, for the first time in his life perhaps,
tears<br>
 gathered in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.</p>

<p>"My poor uncle!" cried Lisbeth, putting a handkerchief to her
eyes.</p>

<p>"Brother!" said Adeline, kneeling down by the Marshal, "live
for my<br>
 sake. Help me in the task of reconciling Hector to the world
and<br>
 making him redeem the past."</p>

<p>"He!" cried the Marshal. "If he lives, he is not at the end of
his<br>
 crimes. A man who has misprized an Adeline, who has smothered in
his<br>
 own soul the feelings of a true Republican which I tried to
instill<br>
 into him, the love of his country, of his family, and of the
poor--<br>
 that man is a monster, a swine!--Take him away if you still care
for<br>
 him, for a voice within me cries to me to load my pistols and
blow his<br>
 brains out. By killing him I should save you all, and I should
save<br>
 him too from himself."</p>

<p>The old man started to his feet with such a terrifying gesture
that<br>
 poor Adeline exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Hector--come!"</p>

<p>She seized her husband's arm, dragged him away, and out of the
house;<br>
 but the Baron was so broken down, that she was obliged to call a
coach<br>
 to take him to the Rue Plumet, where he went to bed. The man
remained<br>
 there for several days in a sort of half-dissolution, refusing
all<br>
 nourishment without a word. By floods of tears, Adeline
persuaded him<br>
 to swallow a little broth; she nursed him, sitting by his bed,
and<br>
 feeling only, of all the emotions that once had filled her
heart, the<br>
 deepest pity for him.</p>

<p>At half-past twelve, Lisbeth showed into her dear Marshal's
room--for<br>
 she would not leave him, so much was she alarmed at the evident
change<br>
 in him--Count Steinbock and the notary.</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Comte," said the Marshal, "I would beg you to be
so good<br>
 as to put your signature to a document authorizing my niece,
your<br>
 wife, to sell a bond for certain funds of which she at present
holds<br>
 only the reversion.--You, Mademoiselle Fischer, will agree to
this<br>
 sale, thus losing your life interest in the securities."</p>

<p>"Yes, dear Count," said Lisbeth without hesitation.</p>

<p>"Good, my dear," said the old soldier. "I hope I may live to
reward<br>
 you. But I did not doubt you; you are a true Republican, a
daughter of<br>
 the people." He took the old maid's hand and kissed it.</p>

<p>"Monsieur Hannequin," he went on, speaking to the notary,
"draw up the<br>
 necessary document in the form of a power of attorney, and let
me have<br>
 it within two hours, so that I may sell the stock on the
Bourse<br>
 to-day. My niece, the Countess, holds the security; she will be
here<br>
 to sign the power of attorney when you bring it, and so will<br>
 mademoiselle. Monsieur le Comte will be good enough to go with
you and<br>
 sign it at your office."</p>

<p>The artist, at a nod from Lisbeth, bowed respectfully to the
Marshal<br>
 and went away.</p>

<p>Next morning, at ten o'clock, the Comte de Forzheim sent in
to<br>
 announce himself to the Prince, and was at once admitted.</p>

<p>"Well, my dear Hulot," said the Prince, holding out the
newspapers to<br>
 his old friend, "we have saved appearances, you see.--Read."</p>

<p>Marshal Hulot laid the papers on his comrade's table, and held
out to<br>
 him the two hundred thousand francs.</p>

<p>"Here is the money of which my brother robbed the State," said
he.</p>

<p>"What madness!" cried the Minister. "It is impossible," he
said into<br>
 the speaking-trumpet handed to him by the Marshal, "to manage
this<br>
 restitution. We should be obliged to declare your brother's
dishonest<br>
 dealings, and we have done everything to hide them."</p>

<p>"Do what you like with the money; but the family shall not owe
one sou<br>
 of its fortune to a robbery on the funds of the State," said
the<br>
 Count.</p>

<p>"I will take the King's commands in the matter. We will
discuss it no<br>
 further," replied the Prince, perceiving that it would be
impossible<br>
 to conquer the old man's sublime obstinacy on the point.</p>

<p>"Good-bye, Cottin," said the old soldier, taking the Prince's
hand. "I<br>
 feel as if my soul were frozen--"</p>

<p>Then, after going a step towards the door, he turned round,
looked at<br>
 the Prince, and seeing that he was deeply moved, he opened his
arms to<br>
 clasp him in them; the two old soldiers embraced each other.</p>

<p>"I feel as if I were taking leave of the whole of the old army
in<br>
 you," said the Count.</p>

<p>"Good-bye, my good old comrade!" said the Minister.</p>

<p>"Yes, it is good-bye; for I am going where all our brave men
are for<br>
 whom we have mourned--"</p>

<p>Just then Claude Vignon was shown in. The two relics of the
Napoleonic<br>
 phalanx bowed gravely to each other, effacing every trace of
emotion.</p>

<p>"You have, I hope, been satisfied by the papers," said the
Master of<br>
 Appeals-elect. "I contrived to let the Opposition papers believe
that<br>
 they were letting out our secrets."</p>

<p>"Unfortunately, it is all in vain," replied the Minister,
watching<br>
 Hulot as he left the room. "I have just gone through a
leave-taking<br>
 that has been a great grief to me. For, indeed, Marshal Hulot
has not<br>
 three days to live; I saw that plainly enough yesterday. That
man, one<br>
 of those honest souls that are above proof, a soldier respected
by the<br>
 bullets in spite of his valor, received his death-blow--there,
in that<br>
 armchair--and dealt by my hand, in a letter!--Ring and order
my<br>
 carriage. I must go to Neuilly," said he, putting the two
hundred<br>
 thousand francs into his official portfolio.</p>

<p>Notwithstanding Lisbeth's nursing, Marshal Hulot three days
later was<br>
 a dead man. Such men are the glory of the party they support.
To<br>
 Republicans, the Marshal was the ideal of patriotism; and they
all<br>
 attended his funeral, which was followed by an immense crowd.
The<br>
 army, the State officials, the Court, and the populace all came
to do<br>
 homage to this lofty virtue, this spotless honesty, this
immaculate<br>
 glory. Such a last tribute of the people is not a thing to be
had for<br>
 the asking.</p>

<p>This funeral was distinguished by one of those tributes of
delicate<br>
 feeling, of good taste, and sincere respect which from time to
time<br>
 remind us of the virtues and dignity of the old French
nobility.<br>
 Following the Marshal's bier came the old Marquis de Montauran,
the<br>
 brother of him who, in the great rising of the Chouans in 1799,
had<br>
 been the foe, the luckless foe, of Hulot. That Marquis, killed
by the<br>
 balls of the "Blues," had confided the interests of his young
brother<br>
 to the Republican soldier. (See <i>Les Chouans</i>.) Hulot had
so<br>
 faithfully acted on the noble Royalist's verbal will, that
he<br>
 succeeded in saving the young man's estates, though he himself
was at<br>
 the time an emigre. And so the homage of the old French nobility
was<br>
 not wanting to the leader who, nine years since, had conquered
MADAME.</p>

<p>This death, happening just four days before the banns were
cried for<br>
 the last time, came upon Lisbeth like the thunderbolt that burns
the<br>
 garnered harvest with the barn. The peasant of Lorraine, as
often<br>
 happens, had succeeded too well. The Marshal had died of the
blows<br>
 dealt to the family by herself and Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>The old maid's vindictiveness, which success seemed to have
somewhat<br>
 mollified, was aggravated by this disappointment of her hopes.
Lisbeth<br>
 went, crying with rage, to Madame Marneffe; for she was
homeless, the<br>
 Marshal having agreed that his lease was at any time to
terminate with<br>
 his life. Crevel, to console Valerie's friend, took charge of
her<br>
 savings, added to them considerably, and invested the capital in
five<br>
 per cents, giving her the life interest, and putting the
securities<br>
 into Celestine's name. Thanks to this stroke of business,
Lisbeth had<br>
 an income of about two thousand francs.</p>

<p><br>
 When the Marshal's property was examined and valued, a note was
found,<br>
 addressed to his sister-in-law, to his niece Hortense, and to
his<br>
 nephew Victorin, desiring that they would pay among them an
annuity of<br>
 twelve hundred francs to Mademoiselle Lisbeth Fischer, who was
to have<br>
 been his wife.</p>

<p>Adeline, seeing her husband between life and death, succeeded
for some<br>
 days in hiding from him the fact of his brother's death; but
Lisbeth<br>
 came, in mourning, and the terrible truth was told him eleven
days<br>
 after the funeral.</p>

<p>The crushing blow revived the sick man's energies. He got up,
found<br>
 his family collected in the drawing-room, all in black, and
suddenly<br>
 silent as he came in. In a fortnight, Hulot, as lean as a
spectre,<br>
 looked to his family the mere shadow of himself.</p>

<p>"I must decide on something," said he in a husky voice, as he
seated<br>
 himself in an easy-chair, and looked round at the party, of
whom<br>
 Crevel and Steinbock were absent.</p>

<p>"We cannot stay here, the rent is too high," Hortense was
saying just<br>
 as her father came in.</p>

<p>"As to a home," said Victorin, breaking the painful silence,
"I can<br>
 offer my mother----"</p>

<p>As he heard these words, which excluded him, the Baron raised
his<br>
 head, which was sunk on his breast as though he were studying
the<br>
 pattern of the carpet, though he did not even see it, and he
gave the<br>
 young lawyer an appealing look. The rights of a father are
so<br>
 indefeasibly sacred, even when he is a villain and devoid of
honor,<br>
 that Victorin paused.</p>

<p>"To your mother," the Baron repeated. "You are right, my
son."</p>

<p>"The rooms over ours in our wing," said Celestine, finishing
her<br>
 husband's sentence.</p>

<p>"I am in your way, my dears?" said the Baron, with the
mildness of a<br>
 man who has judged himself. "But do not be uneasy as to the
future;<br>
 you will have no further cause for complaint of your father; you
will<br>
 not see him till the time when you need no longer blush for
him."</p>

<p>He went up to Hortense and kissed her brow. He opened his arms
to his<br>
 son, who rushed into his embrace, guessing his father's purpose.
The<br>
 Baron signed to Lisbeth, who came to him, and he kissed her
forehead.<br>
 Then he went to his room, whither Adeline followed him in an
agony of<br>
 dread.</p>

<p>"My brother was quite right, Adeline," he said, holding her
hand. "I<br>
 am unworthy of my home life. I dared not bless my children, who
have<br>
 behaved so nobly, but in my heart; tell them that I could only
venture<br>
 to kiss them; for the blessing of a bad man, a father who has
been an<br>
 assassin and the scourge of his family instead of its protector
and<br>
 its glory, might bring evil on them; but assure them that I
shall<br>
 bless them every day.--As to you, God alone, for He is Almighty,
can<br>
 ever reward you according to your merits!--I can only ask
your<br>
 forgiveness!" and he knelt at her feet, taking her hands and
wetting<br>
 them with his tears.</p>

<p>"Hector, Hector! Your sins have been great, but Divine Mercy
is<br>
 infinite, and you may repair all by staying with me.--Rise up
in<br>
 Christian charity, my dear--I am your wife, and not your judge.
I am<br>
 your possession; do what you will with me; take me wherever you
go, I<br>
 feel strong enough comfort you, to make life endurable to you,
by the<br>
 strength of my love, my care, and respect.--Our children are
settled<br>
 in life; they need me no more. Let me try to be an amusement to
you,<br>
 an occupation. Let me share the pain of your banishment and of
your<br>
 poverty, and help to mitigate it. I could always be of some use,
if it<br>
 were only to save the expense of a servant."</p>

<p>"Can you forgive, my dearly-beloved Adeline?"</p>

<p>"Yes, only get up, my dear!"</p>

<p>"Well, with that forgiveness I can live," said he, rising to
his feet.<br>
 "I came back into this room that my children should not see
their<br>
 father's humiliation. Oh! the sight constantly before their eyes
of a<br>
 father so guilty as I am is a terrible thing; it must
undermine<br>
 parental influence and break every family tie. So I cannot
remain<br>
 among you, and I must go to spare you the odious spectacle of a
father<br>
 bereft of dignity. Do not oppose my departure Adeline. It would
only<br>
 be to load with your own hand the pistol to blow my brains out.
Above<br>
 all, do not seek me in my hiding-place; you would deprive me of
the<br>
 only strong motive remaining in me, that of remorse."</p>

<p>Hector's decisiveness silenced his dejected wife. Adeline,
lofty in<br>
 the midst of all this ruin, had derived her courage from her
perfect<br>
 union with her husband; for she had dreamed of having him for
her own,<br>
 of the beautiful task of comforting him, of leading him back to
family<br>
 life, and reconciling him to himself.</p>

<p>"But, Hector, would you leave me to die of despair, anxiety,
and<br>
 alarms!" said she, seeing herself bereft of the mainspring of
her<br>
 strength.</p>

<p>"I will come back to you, dear angel--sent from Heaven
expressly for<br>
 me, I believe. I will come back, if not rich, at least with
enough to<br>
 live in ease.--Listen, my sweet Adeline, I cannot stay here for
many<br>
 reasons. In the first place, my pension of six thousand francs
is<br>
 pledged for four years, so I have nothing. That is not all. I
shall be<br>
 committed to prison within a few days in consequence of the
bills held<br>
 by Vauvinet. So I must keep out of the way until my son, to whom
I<br>
 will give full instructions, shall have bought in the bills.
My<br>
 disappearance will facilitate that. As soon as my pension is my
own,<br>
 and Vauvinet is paid off, I will return to you.--You would be
sure to<br>
 let out the secret of my hiding-place. Be calm; do not cry,
Adeline--<br>
 it is only for a month--"</p>

<p>"Where will you go? What will you do? What will become of you?
Who<br>
 will take care of you now that you are no longer young? Let me
go with<br>
 you--we will go abroad--" said she.</p>

<p>"Well, well, we will see," he replied.</p>

<p>The Baron rang and ordered Mariette to collect all his things
and pack<br>
 them quickly and secretly. Then, after embracing his wife with
a<br>
 warmth of affection to which she was unaccustomed, he begged her
to<br>
 leave him alone for a few minutes while he wrote his
instructions for<br>
 Victorin, promising that he would not leave the house till dark,
or<br>
 without her.</p>

<p>As soon as the Baroness was in the drawing-room, the cunning
old man<br>
 stole out through the dressing-closet to the anteroom, and went
away,<br>
 giving Mariette a slip of paper, on which was written, "Address
my<br>
 trunks to go by railway to Corbeil--to Monsieur Hector,
cloak-room,<br>
 Corbeil."</p>

<p>The Baron jumped into a hackney coach, and was rushing across
Paris by<br>
 the time Mariette came to give the Baroness this note, and say
that<br>
 her master had gone out. Adeline flew back into her room,
trembling<br>
 more violently than ever; her children followed on hearing her
give a<br>
 piercing cry. They found her in a dead faint; and they put her
to bed,<br>
 for she was seized by a nervous fever which held her for a
month<br>
 between life and death.</p>

<p>"Where is he?" was the only thing she would say.</p>

<p>Victorin sought for him in vain.</p>

<p>And this is why. The Baron had driven to the Place du Palais
Royal.<br>
 There this man, who had recovered all his wits to work out a
scheme<br>
 which he had premeditated during the days he had spent crushed
with<br>
 pain and grief, crossed the Palais Royal on foot, and took a
handsome<br>
 carriage from a livery-stable in the Rue Joquelet. In obedience
to his<br>
 orders, the coachman went to the Rue de la Ville l'Eveque, and
into<br>
 the courtyard of Josepha's mansion, the gates opening at once at
the<br>
 call of the driver of such a splendid vehicle. Josepha came
out,<br>
 prompted by curiosity, for her man-servant had told her that
a<br>
 helpless old gentleman, unable to get out of his carriage,
begged her<br>
 to come to him for a moment.</p>

<p>"Josepha!--it is I----"</p>

<p>The singer recognized her Hulot only by his voice.</p>

<p>"What? you, poor old man?--On my honor, you look like a
twenty-franc<br>
 piece that the Jews have sweated and the money-changers
refuse."</p>

<p>"Alas, yes," replied Hulot; "I am snatched from the jaws of
death! But<br>
 you are as lovely as ever. Will you be kind?"</p>

<p>"That depends," said she; "everything is relative."</p>

<p>"Listen," said Hulot; "can you put me up for a few days in a
servant's<br>
 room under the roof? I have nothing--not a farthing, not a hope;
no<br>
 food, no pension, no wife, no children, no roof over my head;
without<br>
 honor, without courage, without a friend; and worse than all
that,<br>
 liable to imprisonment for not meeting a bill."</p>

<p>"Poor old fellow! you are without most things.--Are you also
<i>sans</i><br>
 <i>culotte</i>?"</p>

<p>"You laugh at me! I am done for," cried the Baron. "And I
counted on<br>
 you as Gourville did on Ninon."</p>

<p>"And it was a 'real lady,' I am told who brought you to this,"
said<br>
 Josepha. "Those precious sluts know how to pluck a goose even
better<br>
 than we do!--Why, you are like a corpse that the crows have done
with<br>
 --I can see daylight through!"</p>

<p>"Time is short, Josepha!"</p>

<p>"Come in, old boy, I am alone, as it happens, and my people
don't know<br>
 you. Send away your trap. Is it paid for?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said the Baron, getting out with the help of Josepha's
arm.</p>

<p>"You may call yourself my father if you like," said the
singer, moved<br>
 to pity.</p>

<p>She made Hulot sit down in the splendid drawing-room where he
had last<br>
 seen her.</p>

<p>"And is it the fact, old man," she went on, "that you have
killed your<br>
 brother and your uncle, ruined your family, mortgaged your
children's<br>
 house over and over again, and robbed the Government till in
Africa,<br>
 all for your princess?"</p>

<p>Hulot sadly bent his head.</p>

<p>"Well, I admire that!" cried Josepha, starting up in her
enthusiasm.<br>
 "It is a general flare-up! It is Sardanapalus! Splendid,
thoroughly<br>
 complete! I may be a hussy, but I have a soul! I tell you, I
like a<br>
 spendthrift, like you, crazy over a woman, a thousand times
better<br>
 than those torpid, heartless bankers, who are supposed to be so
good,<br>
 and who ruin no end of families with their rails--gold for them,
and<br>
 iron for their gulls! You have only ruined those who belong to
you,<br>
 you have sold no one but yourself; and then you have excuses,
physical<br>
 and moral."</p>

<p>She struck a tragic attitude, and spouted:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>" 'Tis Venus whose grasp never parts from her prey.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>And there you are!" and she pirouetted on her toe.</p>

<p>Vice, Hulot found, could forgive him; vice smiled on him from
the<br>
 midst of unbridled luxury. Here, as before a jury, the magnitude
of a<br>
 crime was an extenuating circumstance. "And is your lady pretty
at any<br>
 rate?" asked Josepha, trying as a preliminary act of charity,
to<br>
 divert Hulot's thoughts, for his depression grieved her.</p>

<p><br>
 "On my word, almost as pretty as you are," said the Baron
artfully.</p>

<p>"And monstrously droll? So I have been told. What does she do,
I say?<br>
 Is she better fun than I am?"</p>

<p>"I don't want to talk about her," said Hulot.</p>

<p>"And I hear she has come round my Crevel, and little
Steinbock, and a<br>
 gorgeous Brazilian?"</p>

<p>"Very likely."</p>

<p>"And that she has got a house as good as this, that Crevel has
given<br>
 her. The baggage! She is my provost-marshal, and finishes off
those I<br>
 have spoiled. I tell you why I am so curious to know what she is
like,<br>
 old boy; I just caught sight of her in the Bois, in an open
carriage--<br>
 but a long way off. She is a most accomplished harpy, Carabine
says.<br>
 She is trying to eat up Crevel, but he only lets her nibble.
Crevel is<br>
 a knowing hand, good-natured but hard-headed, who will always
say Yes,<br>
 and then go his own way. He is vain and passionate; but his cash
is<br>
 cold. You can never get anything out of such fellows beyond a
thousand<br>
 to three thousand francs a month; they jib at any serious
outlay, as a<br>
 donkey does at a running stream.</p>

<p>"Not like you, old boy. You are a man of passions; you would
sell your<br>
 country for a woman. And, look here, I am ready to do anything
for<br>
 you! You are my father; you started me in life; it is a sacred
duty.<br>
 What do you want? Do you want a hundred thousand francs? I will
wear<br>
 myself to a rag to gain them. As to giving you bed and
board--that is<br>
 nothing. A place will be laid for you here every day; you can
have a<br>
 good room on the second floor, and a hundred crowns a month
for<br>
 pocket-money."</p>

<p>The Baron, deeply touched by such a welcome, had a last qualm
of<br>
 honor.</p>

<p>"No, my dear child, no; I did not come here for you to keep
me," said<br>
 he.</p>

<p>"At your age it is something to be proud of," said she.</p>

<p>"This is what I wish, my child. Your Duc d'Herouville has
immense<br>
 estates in Normandy, and I want to be his steward, under the
name of<br>
 Thoul. I have the capacity, and I am honest. A man may borrow of
the<br>
 Government, and yet not steal from a cash-box----"</p>

<p>"H'm, h'm," said Josepha. "Once drunk, drinks again."</p>

<p>"In short, I only want to live out of sight for three
years--"</p>

<p>"Well, it is soon done," said Josepha. "This evening, after
dinner, I<br>
 have only to speak. The Duke would marry me if I wished it, but
I have<br>
 his fortune, and I want something better--his esteem. He is a
Duke of<br>
 the first water. He is high-minded, as noble and great as Louis
XIV.<br>
 and Napoleon rolled into one, though he is a dwarf. Besides, I
have<br>
 done for him what la Schontz did for Rochefide; by taking my
advice he<br>
 has made two millions.</p>

<p>"Now, listen to me, old popgun. I know you; you are always
after the<br>
 women, and you would be dancing attendance on the Normandy
girls, who<br>
 are splendid creatures, and getting your ribs cracked by their
lovers<br>
 and fathers, and the Duke would have to get you out of the
scrape.<br>
 Why, can't I see by the way you look at me that the <i>young</i>
man is not<br>
 dead in you--as Fenelon put it.--No, this stewardship is not the
thing<br>
 for you. A man cannot be off with his Paris and with us, old
boy, for<br>
 the saying! You would die of weariness at Herouville."</p>

<p>"What is to become of me?" said the Baron, "for I will only
stay here<br>
 till I see my way."</p>

<p>"Well, shall I find a pigeon-hole for you? Listen, you old
pirate.<br>
 Women are what you want. They are consolation in all
circumstances.<br>
 Attend now.--At the end of the Alley, Rue Saint-Maur-du-Temple,
there<br>
 is a poor family I know of where there is a jewel of a little
girl,<br>
 prettier than I was at sixteen.--Ah! there is a twinkle in your
eye<br>
 already!--The child works sixteen hours a day at embroidering
costly<br>
 pieces for the silk merchants, and earns sixteen sous a day--one
sou<br>
 an hour!--and feeds like the Irish, on potatoes fried in
rats'<br>
 dripping, with bread five times a week--and drinks canal water
out of<br>
 the town pipes, because the Seine water costs too much; and she
cannot<br>
 set up on her own account for lack of six or seven thousand
francs.<br>
 Your wife and children bore you to death, don't they?--Besides,
one<br>
 cannot submit to be nobody where one has been a little Almighty.
A<br>
 father who has neither money nor honor can only be stuffed and
kept in<br>
 a glass case."</p>

<p>The Baron could not help smiling at these abominable
jests.</p>

<p>"Well, now, Bijou is to come to-morrow morning to bring me
an<br>
 embroidered wrapper, a gem! It has taken six months to make; no
one<br>
 else will have any stuff like it! Bijou is very fond of me; I
give her<br>
 tidbits and my old gowns. And I send orders for bread and meat
and<br>
 wood to the family, who would break the shin-bones of the first
comer<br>
 if I bid them.--I try to do a little good. Ah! I know what I
endured<br>
 from hunger myself!--Bijou has confided to me all her little
sorrows.<br>
 There is the making of a super at the Ambigu-Comique in that
child.<br>
 Her dream is to wear fine dresses like mine; above all, to ride
in a<br>
 carriage. I shall say to her, 'Look here, little one, would you
like<br>
 to have a friend of--' How old are you?" she asked,
interrupting<br>
 herself. "Seventy-two?"</p>

<p>"I have given up counting."</p>

<p>" 'Would you like an old gentleman of seventy-two?' I shall
say. 'Very<br>
 clean and neat, and who does not take snuff, who is as sound as
a<br>
 bell, and as good as a young man? He will marry you (in the
Thirteenth<br>
 Arrondissement) and be very kind to you; he will place seven
thousand<br>
 francs in your account, and furnish you a room all in mahogany,
and if<br>
 you are good, he will sometimes take you to the play. He will
give you<br>
 a hundred francs a month for pocket-money, and fifty francs
for<br>
 housekeeping.'--I know Bijou; she is myself at fourteen. I
jumped for<br>
 joy when that horrible Crevel made me his atrocious offers.
Well, and<br>
 you, old man, will be disposed of for three years. She is a
good<br>
 child, well behaved; for three or four years she will have
her<br>
 illusions--not for longer."</p>

<p>Hulot did not hesitate; he had made up his mind to refuse; but
to seem<br>
 grateful to the kind-hearted singer, who was benevolent after
her<br>
 lights, he affected to hesitate between vice and virtue.</p>

<p>"Why, you are as cold as a paving-stone in winter!" she
exclaimed in<br>
 amazement. "Come, now. You will make a whole family happy--a<br>
 grandfather who runs all the errands, a mother who is being worn
out<br>
 with work, and two sisters--one of them very plain--who make
thirty-<br>
 two sous a day while putting their eyes out. It will make up for
the<br>
 misery you have caused at home, and you will expiate your sin
while<br>
 you are having as much fun as a minx at Mabille."</p>

<p>Hulot, to put an end to this temptation, moved his fingers as
if he<br>
 were counting out money.</p>

<p>"Oh! be quite easy as to ways and means," replied Josepha. "My
Duke<br>
 will lend you ten thousand francs; seven thousand to start
an<br>
 embroidery shop in Bijou's name, and three thousand for
furnishing;<br>
 and every three months you will find a cheque here for six
hundred and<br>
 fifty francs. When you get your pension paid you, you can repay
the<br>
 seventeen thousand francs. Meanwhile you will be as happy as a
cow in<br>
 clover, and hidden in a hole where the police will never find
you. You<br>
 must wear a loose serge coat, and you will look like a
comfortable<br>
 householder. Call yourself Thoul, if that is your fancy. I will
tell<br>
 Bijou that you are an uncle of mine come from Germany, having
failed<br>
 in business, and you will be cosseted like a divinity.--There
now,<br>
 Daddy!--And who knows! you may have no regrets. In case you
should be<br>
 bored, keep one Sunday rig-out, and you can come and ask me for
a<br>
 dinner and spend the evening here."</p>

<p>"I!--and I meant to settle down and behave myself!--Look here,
borrow<br>
 twenty thousand francs for me, and I will set out to make my
fortune<br>
 in America, like my friend d'Aiglemont when Nucingen cleaned him
out."</p>

<p>"You!" cried Josepha. "Nay, leave morals to work-a-day folks,
to raw<br>
 recruits, to the <i>worrrthy</i> citizens who have nothing to
boast of but<br>
 their virtue. You! You were born to be something better than
a<br>
 nincompoop; you are as a man what I am as a woman--a spendthrift
of<br>
 genius."</p>

<p>"We will sleep on it and discuss it all to-morrow
morning."</p>

<p>"You will dine with the Duke. My d'Herouville will receive you
as<br>
 civilly as if you were the saviour of the State; and to-morrow
you can<br>
 decide. Come, be jolly, old boy! Life is a garment; when it is
dirty,<br>
 we must brush it; when it is ragged, it must be patched; but we
keep<br>
 it on as long as we can."</p>

<p>This philosophy of life, and her high spirits, postponed
Hulot's<br>
 keenest pangs.</p>

<p>At noon next day, after a capital breakfast, Hulot saw the
arrival of<br>
 one of those living masterpieces which Paris alone of all the
cities<br>
 in the world can produce, by means of the constant concubinage
of<br>
 luxury and poverty, of vice and decent honesty, of suppressed
desire<br>
 and renewed temptation, which makes the French capital the
daughter of<br>
 Ninevah, of Babylon, and of Imperial Rome.</p>

<p>Mademoiselle Olympe Bijou, a child of sixteen, had the
exquisite face<br>
 which Raphael drew for his Virgins; eyes of pathetic innocence,
weary<br>
 with overwork--black eyes, with long lashes, their moisture
parched<br>
 with the heat of laborious nights, and darkened with fatigue;
a<br>
 complexion like porcelain, almost too delicate; a mouth like a
partly<br>
 opened pomegranate; a heaving bosom, a full figure, pretty
hands, the<br>
 whitest teeth, and a mass of black hair; and the whole meagrely
set<br>
 off by a cotton frock at seventy-five centimes the metre,
leather<br>
 shoes without heels, and the cheapest gloves. The girl, all<br>
 unconscious of her charms, had put on her best frock to wait on
the<br>
 fine lady.</p>

<p>The Baron, gripped again by the clutch of profligacy, felt all
his<br>
 life concentrated in his eyes. He forgot everything on beholding
this<br>
 delightful creature. He was like a sportsman in sight of the
game; if<br>
 an emperor were present, he must take aim!</p>

<p>"And warranted sound," said Josepha in his ear. "An honest
child, and<br>
 wanting bread. This is Paris--I have been there!"</p>

<p>"It is a bargain," replied the old man, getting up and rubbing
his<br>
 hands.</p>

<p>When Olympe Bijou was gone, Josepha looked mischievously at
the Baron.</p>

<p>"If you want things to keep straight, Daddy," said she, "be as
firm as<br>
 the Public Prosecutor on the bench. Keep a tight hand on her, be
a<br>
 Bartholo! Ware Auguste, Hippolyte, Nestor, Victor--<i>or</i>,
that is gold,<br>
 in every form. When once the child is fed and dressed, if she
gets the<br>
 upper hand, she will drive you like a serf.--I will see to
settling<br>
 you comfortably. The Duke does the handsome; he will lend--that
is,<br>
 give--you ten thousand francs; and he deposits eight thousand
with his<br>
 notary, who will pay you six hundred francs every quarter, for
I<br>
 cannot trust you.--Now, am I nice?"</p>

<p>"Adorable."</p>

<p>Ten days after deserting his family, when they were gathered
round<br>
 Adeline, who seemed to be dying, as she said again and again, in
a<br>
 weak voice, "Where is he?" Hector, under the name of Thoul,
was<br>
 established in the Rue Saint-Maur, at the head of a business
as<br>
 embroiderer, under the name of Thoul and Bijou.</p>

<p>Victorin Hulot, under the overwhelming disasters of his
family, had<br>
 received the finishing touch which makes or mars the man. He
was<br>
 perfection. In the great storms of life we act like the captain
of a<br>
 ship who, under the stress of a hurricane, lightens the ship of
its<br>
 heaviest cargo. The young lawyer lost his self-conscious pride,
his<br>
 too evident assertiveness, his arrogance as an orator and
his<br>
 political pretensions. He was as a man what his wife was as a
woman.<br>
 He made up his mind to make the best of his Celestine--who
certainly<br>
 did not realize his dreams--and was wise enough to estimate life
at<br>
 its true value by contenting himself in all things with the
second<br>
 best. He vowed to fulfil his duties, so much had he been shocked
by<br>
 his father's example.</p>

<p>These feelings were confirmed as he stood by his mother's bed
on the<br>
 day when she was out of danger. Nor did this happiness come
single.<br>
 Claude Vignon, who called every day from the Prince de
Wissembourg to<br>
 inquire as to Madame Hulot's progress, desired the re-elected
deputy<br>
 to go with him to see the Minister.</p>

<p>"His Excellency," said he, "wants to talk over your family
affairs<br>
 with you."</p>

<p>The Prince had long known Victorin Hulot, and received him
with a<br>
 friendliness that promised well.</p>

<p>"My dear fellow," said the old soldier, "I promised your
uncle, in<br>
 this room, that I would take care of your mother. That saintly
woman,<br>
 I am told, is getting well again; now is the time to pour oil
into<br>
 your wounds. I have for you here two hundred thousand francs; I
will<br>
 give them to you----"</p>

<p>The lawyer's gesture was worthy of his uncle the Marshal.</p>

<p>"Be quite easy," said the Prince, smiling; "it is money in
trust. My<br>
 days are numbered; I shall not always be here; so take this sum,
and<br>
 fill my place towards your family. You may use this money to pay
off<br>
 the mortgage on your house. These two hundred thousand francs
are the<br>
 property of your mother and your sister. If I gave the money to
Madame<br>
 Hulot, I fear that, in her devotion to her husband, she would
be<br>
 tempted to waste it. And the intention of those who restore it
to you<br>
 is, that it should produce bread for Madame Hulot and her
daughter,<br>
 the Countess Steinbock. You are a steady man, the worthy son of
your<br>
 noble mother, the true nephew of my friend the Marshal; you
are<br>
 appreciated here, you see--and elsewhere. So be the guardian
angel of<br>
 your family, and take this as a legacy from your uncle and
me."</p>

<p>"Monseigneur," said Hulot, taking the Minister's hand and
pressing it,<br>
 "such men as you know that thanks in words mean nothing;
gratitude<br>
 must be proven."</p>

<p>"Prove yours--" said the old man.</p>

<p>"In what way?"</p>

<p>"By accepting what I have to offer you," said the Minister.
"We<br>
 propose to appoint you to be attorney to the War Office, which
just<br>
 now is involved in litigations in consequence of the plan
for<br>
 fortifying Paris; consulting clerk also to the Prefecture of
Police;<br>
 and a member of the Board of the Civil List. These three
appointments<br>
 will secure you salaries amounting to eighteen thousand francs,
and<br>
 will leave you politically free. You can vote in the Chamber
in<br>
 obedience to your opinions and your conscience. Act in perfect
freedom<br>
 on that score. It would be a bad thing for us if there were
no<br>
 national opposition!</p>

<p>"Also, a few lines from your uncle, written a day or two
before he<br>
 breathed his last, suggested what I could do for your mother,
whom he<br>
 loved very truly.--Mesdames Popinot, de Rastignac, de
Navarreins,<br>
 d'Espard, de Grandlieu, de Carigliano, de Lenoncourt, and de la
Batie<br>
 have made a place for your mother as a Lady Superintendent of
their<br>
 charities. These ladies, presidents of various branches of
benevolent<br>
 work, cannot do everything themselves; they need a lady of
character<br>
 who can act for them by going to see the objects of their
beneficence,<br>
 ascertaining that charity is not imposed upon, and whether the
help<br>
 given really reaches those who applied for it, finding out that
the<br>
 poor who are ashamed to beg, and so forth. Your mother will
fulfil an<br>
 angelic function; she will be thrown in with none but priests
and<br>
 these charitable ladies; she will be paid six thousand francs
and the<br>
 cost of her hackney coaches.</p>

<p>"You see, young man, that a pure and nobly virtuous man can
still<br>
 assist his family, even from the grave. Such a name as your
uncle's<br>
 is, and ought to be, a buckler against misfortune in a
well-organized<br>
 scheme of society. Follow in his path; you have started in it, I
know;<br>
 continue in it."</p>

<p>"Such delicate kindness cannot surprise me in my mother's
friend,"<br>
 said Victorin. "I will try to come up to all your hopes."</p>

<p>"Go at once, and take comfort to your family.--By the way,"
added the<br>
 Prince, as he shook hands with Victorin, "your father has<br>
 disappeared?"</p>

<p>"Alas! yes."</p>

<p>"So much the better. That unhappy man has shown his wit, in
which,<br>
 indeed, he is not lacking."</p>

<p>"There are bills of his to be met."</p>

<p>"Well, you shall have six months' pay of your three
appointments in<br>
 advance. This pre-payment will help you, perhaps, to get the
notes out<br>
 of the hands of the money-lender. And I will see Nucingen, and
perhaps<br>
 may succeed in releasing your father's pension, pledged to
him,<br>
 without its costing you or our office a sou. The peer has not
killed<br>
 the banker in Nucingen; he is insatiable; he wants some
concession.--I<br>
 know not what----"</p>

<p>So on his return to the Rue Plumet, Victorin could carry out
his plan<br>
 of lodging his mother and sister under his roof.</p>

<p>The young lawyer, already famous, had, for his sole fortune,
one of<br>
 the handsomest houses in Paris, purchased in 1834 in preparation
for<br>
 his marriage, situated on the boulevard between the Rue de la
Paix and<br>
 the Rue Louis-le-Grand. A speculator had built two houses
between the<br>
 boulevard and the street; and between these, with the gardens
and<br>
 courtyards to the front and back, there remained still standing
a<br>
 splendid wing, the remains of the magnificent mansion of the<br>
 Verneuils. The younger Hulot had purchased this fine property,
on the<br>
 strength of Mademoiselle Crevel's marriage-portion, for one
million<br>
 francs, when it was put up to auction, paying five hundred
thousand<br>
 down. He lived on the ground floor, expecting to pay the
remainder out<br>
 of letting the rest; but though it is safe to speculate in
house-<br>
 property in Paris, such investments are capricious or hang
fire,<br>
 depending on unforeseen circumstances.</p>

<p>As the Parisian lounger may have observed, the boulevard
between the<br>
 Rue de la Paix and the Rue Louis-le-Grand prospered but slowly;
it<br>
 took so long to furbish and beautify itself, that trade did not
set up<br>
 its display there till 1840--the gold of the money-changers,
the<br>
 fairy-work of fashion, and the luxurious splendor of
shop-fronts.</p>

<p>In spite of two hundred thousand francs given by Crevel to
his<br>
 daughter at the time when his vanity was flattered by this
marriage,<br>
 before the Baron had robbed him of Josepha; in spite of the
two<br>
 hundred thousand francs paid off by Victorin in the course of
seven<br>
 years, the property was still burdened with a debt of five
hundred<br>
 thousand francs, in consequence of Victorin's devotion to his
father.<br>
 Happily, a rise in rents and the advantages of the situation had
at<br>
 this time improved the value of the houses. The speculation
was<br>
 justifying itself after eight years' patience, during which the
lawyer<br>
 had strained every nerve to pay the interest and some trifling
amounts<br>
 of the capital borrowed.</p>

<p>The tradespeople were ready to offer good rents for the shops,
on<br>
 condition of being granted leases for eighteen years. The
dwelling<br>
 apartments rose in value by the shifting of the centre in Paris
life--<br>
 henceforth transferred to the region between the Bourse and
the<br>
 Madeleine, now the seat of the political power and financial
authority<br>
 in Paris. The money paid to him by the Minister, added to a
year's<br>
 rent in advance and the premiums paid by his tenants, would
finally<br>
 reduce the outstanding debt to two hundred thousand francs. The
two<br>
 houses, if entirely let, would bring in a hundred thousand
francs a<br>
 year. Within two years more, during which the Hulots could live
on his<br>
 salaries, added to by the Marshal's investments, Victorin would
be in<br>
 a splendid position.</p>

<p>This was manna from heaven. Victorin could give up the first
floor of<br>
 his own house to his mother, and the second to Hortense,
excepting two<br>
 rooms reserved for Lisbeth. With Cousin Betty as the
housekeeper, this<br>
 compound household could bear all these charges, and yet keep up
a<br>
 good appearance, as beseemed a pleader of note. The great stars
of the<br>
 law-courts were rapidly disappearing; and Victorin Hulot, gifted
with<br>
 a shrewd tongue and strict honesty, was listened to by the Bench
and<br>
 Councillors; he studied his cases thoroughly, and advanced
nothing<br>
 that he could not prove. He would not hold every brief that
offered;<br>
 in fact, he was a credit to the bar.</p>

<p>The Baroness' home in the Rue Plumet had become so odious to
her, that<br>
 she allowed herself to be taken to the Rue Louis-le-Grand. Thus,
by<br>
 her son's care, Adeline occupied a fine apartment; she was
spared all<br>
 the daily worries of life; for Lisbeth consented to begin
again,<br>
 working wonders of domestic economy, such as she had achieved
for<br>
 Madame Marneffe, seeing here a way of exerting her silent
vengeance on<br>
 those three noble lives, the object, each, of her hatred, which
was<br>
 kept growing by the overthrow of all her hopes.</p>

<p>Once a month she went to see Valerie, sent, indeed, by
Hortense, who<br>
 wanted news of Wenceslas, and by Celestine, who was seriously
uneasy<br>
 at the acknowledged and well-known connection between her father
and a<br>
 woman to whom her mother-in-law and sister-in-law owed their
ruin and<br>
 their sorrows. As may be supposed, Lisbeth took advantage of
this to<br>
 see Valerie as often as possible.</p>

<p>Thus, about twenty months passed by, during which the
Baroness<br>
 recovered her health, though her palsied trembling never left
her. She<br>
 made herself familiar with her duties, which afforded her a
noble<br>
 distraction from her sorrow and constant food for the divine
goodness<br>
 of her heart. She also regarded it as an opportunity for finding
her<br>
 husband in the course of one of those expeditions which took her
into<br>
 every part of Paris.</p>

<p><br>
 During this time, Vauvinet had been paid, and the pension of
six<br>
 thousand francs was almost redeemed. Victorin could maintain
his<br>
 mother as well as Hortense out of the ten thousand francs
interest on<br>
 the money left by Marshal Hulot in trust for them. Adeline's
salary<br>
 amounted to six thousand francs a year; and this, added to the
Baron's<br>
 pension when it was freed, would presently secure an income of
twelve<br>
 thousand francs a year to the mother and daughter.</p>

<p>Thus, the poor woman would have been almost happy but for
her<br>
 perpetual anxieties as to the Baron's fate; for she longed to
have him<br>
 with her to share the improved fortunes that smiled on the
family; and<br>
 but for the constant sight of her forsaken daughter; and but for
the<br>
 terrible thrusts constantly and <i>unconsciously</i> dealt her
by Lisbeth,<br>
 whose diabolical character had free course.</p>

<p>A scene which took place at the beginning of the month of
March 1843<br>
 will show the results of Lisbeth's latent and persistent hatred,
still<br>
 seconded, as she always was, by Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>Two great events had occurred in the Marneffe household. In
the first<br>
 place, Valerie had given birth to a still-born child, whose
little<br>
 coffin had cost her two thousand francs a year. And then, as
to<br>
 Marneffe himself, eleven months since, this is the report given
by<br>
 Lisbeth to the Hulot family one day on her return from a visit
of<br>
 discovery at the hotel Marneffe.</p>

<p>"This morning," said she, "that dreadful Valerie sent for
Doctor<br>
 Bianchon to ask whether the medical men who had condemned her
husband<br>
 yesterday had made no mistake. Bianchon pronounced that to-night
at<br>
 the latest that horrible creature will depart to the torments
that<br>
 await him. Old Crevel and Madame Marneffe saw the doctor out;
and your<br>
 father, my dear Celestine, gave him five gold pieces for his
good<br>
 news.</p>

<p>"When he came back into the drawing-room, Crevel cut capers
like a<br>
 dancer; he embraced that woman, exclaiming, 'Then, at last, you
will<br>
 be Madame Crevel!'--And to me, when she had gone back to her
husband's<br>
 bedside, for he was at his last gasp, your noble father said to
me,<br>
 'With Valerie as my wife, I can become a peer of France! I shall
buy<br>
 an estate I have my eye on--Presles, which Madame de Serizy
wants to<br>
 sell. I shall be Crevel de Presles, member of the Common Council
of<br>
 Seine-et-Oise, and Deputy. I shall have a son! I shall be
everything I<br>
 have ever wished to be.'--'Heh!' said I, 'and what about
your<br>
 daughter?'--'Bah!' says he, 'she is only a woman! And she is
quite too<br>
 much of a Hulot. Valerie has a horror of them all.--My
son-in-law has<br>
 never chosen to come to this house; why has he given himself
such airs<br>
 as a Mentor, a Spartan, a Puritan, a philanthropist? Besides, I
have<br>
 squared accounts with my daughter; she has had all her
mother's<br>
 fortune, and two hundred thousand francs to that. So I am free
to act<br>
 as I please.--I shall judge of my son-in-law and Celestine by
their<br>
 conduct on my marriage; as they behave, so shall I. If they are
nice<br>
 to their stepmother, I will receive them. I am a man, after
all!'--In<br>
 short, all this rhodomontade! And an attitude like Napoleon on
the<br>
 column."</p>

<p>The ten months' widowhood insisted on by the law had now
elapsed some<br>
 few days since. The estate of Presles was purchased. Victorin
and<br>
 Celestine had that very morning sent Lisbeth to make inquiries
as to<br>
 the marriage of the fascinating widow to the Mayor of Paris, now
a<br>
 member of the Common Council of the Department of
Seine-et-Oise.</p>

<p>Celestine and Hortense, in whom the ties of affection had been
drawn<br>
 closer since they had lived under the same roof, were almost<br>
 inseparable. The Baroness, carried away by a sense of honesty
which<br>
 led her to exaggerate the duties of her place, devoted herself
to the<br>
 work of charity of which she was the agent; she was out almost
every<br>
 day from eleven till five. The sisters-in-law, united in their
cares<br>
 for the children whom they kept together, sat at home and
worked. They<br>
 had arrived at the intimacy which thinks aloud, and were a
touching<br>
 picture of two sisters, one cheerful and the other sad. The less
happy<br>
 of the two, handsome, lively, high-spirited, and clever, seemed
by her<br>
 manner to defy her painful situation; while the melancholy
Celestine,<br>
 sweet and calm, and as equable as reason itself, might have
been<br>
 supposed to have some secret grief. It was this
contradiction,<br>
 perhaps, that added to their warm friendship. Each supplied the
other<br>
 with what she lacked.</p>

<p>Seated in a little summer-house in the garden, which the
speculator's<br>
 trowel had spared by some fancy of the builder's, who believed
that he<br>
 was preserving these hundred feet square of earth for his
own<br>
 pleasure, they were admiring the first green shoots of the
lilac-<br>
 trees, a spring festival which can only be fully appreciated in
Paris<br>
 when the inhabitants have lived for six months oblivious of
what<br>
 vegetation means, among the cliffs of stone where the ocean
of<br>
 humanity tosses to and fro.</p>

<p>"Celestine," said Hortense to her sister-in-law, who had
complained<br>
 that in such fine weather her husband should be kept at the
Chamber,<br>
 "I think you do not fully appreciate your happiness. Victorin is
a<br>
 perfect angel, and you sometimes torment him."</p>

<p>"My dear, men like to be tormented! Certain ways of teasing
are a<br>
 proof of affection. If your poor mother had only been--I will
not say<br>
 exacting, but always prepared to be exacting, you would not have
had<br>
 so much to grieve over."</p>

<p>"Lisbeth is not come back. I shall have to sing the song
of<br>
 <i>Malbrouck</i>," said Hortense. "I do long for some news of
Wenceslas!--<br>
 What does he live on? He has not done a thing these two
years."</p>

<p>"Victorin saw him, he told me, with that horrible woman not
long ago;<br>
 and he fancied that she maintains him in idleness.--If you only
would,<br>
 dear soul, you might bring your husband back to you yet."</p>

<p>Hortense shook her head.</p>

<p>"Believe me," Celestine went on, "the position will ere long
be<br>
 intolerable. In the first instance, rage, despair, indignation,
gave<br>
 you strength. The awful disasters that have come upon us
since--two<br>
 deaths, ruin, and the disappearance of Baron Hulot--have
occupied your<br>
 mind and heart; but now you live in peace and silence, you will
find<br>
 it hard to bear the void in your life; and as you cannot, and
will<br>
 never leave the path of virtue, you will have to be reconciled
to<br>
 Wenceslas. Victorin, who loves you so much, is of that opinion.
There<br>
 is something stronger than one's feelings even, and that is
Nature!"</p>

<p>"But such a mean creature!" cried the proud Hortense. "He
cares for<br>
 that woman because she feeds him.--And has she paid his debts,
do you<br>
 suppose?--Good Heaven! I think of that man's position day and
night!<br>
 He is the father of my child, and he is degrading himself."</p>

<p>"But look at your mother, my dear," said Celestine.</p>

<p>Celestine was one of those women who, when you have given them
reasons<br>
 enough to convince a Breton peasant, still go back for the
hundredth<br>
 time to their original argument. The character of her face,
somewhat<br>
 flat, dull, and common, her light-brown hair in stiff, neat
bands, her<br>
 very complexion spoke of a sensible woman, devoid of charm, but
also<br>
 devoid of weakness.</p>

<p>"The Baroness would willingly go to join her husband in his
disgrace,<br>
 to comfort him and hide him in her heart from every eye,"
Celestine<br>
 went on. "Why, she has a room made ready upstairs for Monsieur
Hulot,<br>
 as if she expected to find him and bring him home from one day
to the<br>
 next."</p>

<p>"Oh yes, my mother is sublime!" replied Hortense. "She has
been so<br>
 every minute of every day for six-and-twenty years; but I am not
like<br>
 her, it is not my nature.--How can I help it? I am angry with
myself<br>
 sometimes; but you do not know, Celestine, what it would be to
make<br>
 terms with infamy."</p>

<p>"There is my father!" said Celestine placidly. "He has
certainly<br>
 started on the road that ruined yours. He is ten years younger
than<br>
 the Baron, to be sure, and was only a tradesman; but how can it
end?<br>
 This Madame Marneffe has made a slave of my father; he is her
dog; she<br>
 is mistress of his fortune and his opinions, and nothing can
open his<br>
 eyes. I tremble when I remember that their banns of marriage
are<br>
 already published!--My husband means to make a last attempt; he
thinks<br>
 it a duty to try to avenge society and the family, and bring
that<br>
 woman to account for all her crimes. Alas! my dear Hortense,
such<br>
 lofty souls as Victorin and hearts like ours come too late to
a<br>
 comprehension of the world and its ways!--This is a secret,
dear, and<br>
 I have told you because you are interested in it, but never by a
word<br>
 or a look betray it to Lisbeth, or your mother, or anybody,
for--"</p>

<p>"Here is Lisbeth!" said Hortense. "Well, cousin, and how is
the<br>
 Inferno of the Rue Barbet going on?"</p>

<p>"Badly for you, my children.--Your husband, my dear Hortense,
is more<br>
 crazy about that woman than ever, and she, I must own, is madly
in<br>
 love with him.--Your father, dear Celestine, is gloriously
blind.<br>
 That, to be sure, is nothing; I have had occasion to see it once
a<br>
 fortnight; really, I am lucky never to have had anything to do
with<br>
 men, they are besotted creatures.--Five days hence you, dear
child,<br>
 and Victorin will have lost your father's fortune."</p>

<p>"Then the banns are cried?" said Celestine.</p>

<p>"Yes," said Lisbeth, "and I have just been arguing your case.
I<br>
 pointed out to that monster, who is going the way of the other,
that<br>
 if he would only get you out of the difficulties you are in by
paying<br>
 off the mortgage on the house, you would show your gratitude
and<br>
 receive your stepmother--"</p>

<p>Hortense started in horror.</p>

<p>"Victorin will see about that," said Celestine coldly.</p>

<p>"But do you know what Monsieur le Maire's answer was?" said
Lisbeth.<br>
 " 'I mean to leave them where they are. Horses can only be
broken in<br>
 by lack of food, sleep, and sugar.'--Why, Baron Hulot was not so
bad<br>
 as Monsieur Crevel.</p>

<p>"So, my poor dears, you may say good-bye to the money. And
such a fine<br>
 fortune! Your father paid three million francs for the Presles
estate,<br>
 and he has thirty thousand francs a year in stocks! Oh!--he has
no<br>
 secrets from me. He talks of buying the Hotel de Navarreins, in
the<br>
 Rue du Bac. Madame Marneffe herself has forty thousand francs a
year.<br>
 --Ah!--here is our guardian angel, here comes your mother!"
she<br>
 exclaimed, hearing the rumble of wheels.</p>

<p>And presently the Baroness came down the garden steps and
joined the<br>
 party. At fifty-five, though crushed by so many troubles,
and<br>
 constantly trembling as if shivering with ague, Adeline, whose
face<br>
 was indeed pale and wrinkled, still had a fine figure, a
noble<br>
 outline, and natural dignity. Those who saw her said, "She must
have<br>
 been beautiful!" Worn with the grief of not knowing her
husband's<br>
 fate, of being unable to share with him this oasis in the heart
of<br>
 Paris, this peace and seclusion and the better fortune that
was<br>
 dawning on the family, her beauty was the beauty of a ruin. As
each<br>
 gleam of hope died out, each day of search proved vain, Adeline
sank<br>
 into fits of deep melancholy that drove her children to
despair.</p>

<p>The Baroness had gone out that morning with fresh hopes, and
was<br>
 anxiously expected. An official, who was under obligations to
Hulot,<br>
 to whom he owed his position and advancement, declared that he
had<br>
 seen the Baron in a box at the Ambigu-Comique theatre with a
woman of<br>
 extraordinary beauty. So Adeline had gone to call on the
Baron<br>
 Verneuil. This important personage, while asserting that he
had<br>
 positively seen his old patron, and that his behaviour to the
woman<br>
 indicated an illicit establishment, told Madame Hulot that to
avoid<br>
 meeting him the Baron had left long before the end of the
play.</p>

<p>"He looked like a man at home with the damsel, but his dress
betrayed<br>
 some lack of means," said he in conclusion.</p>

<p>"Well?" said the three women as the Baroness came towards
them.</p>

<p>"Well, Monsieur Hulot is in Paris; and to me," said Adeline,
"it is a<br>
 gleam of happiness only to know that he is within reach of
us."</p>

<p>"But he does not seem to have mended his ways," Lisbeth
remarked when<br>
 Adeline had finished her report of her visit to Baron Verneuil.
"He<br>
 has taken up some little work-girl. But where can he get the
money<br>
 from? I could bet that he begs of his former
mistresses--Mademoiselle<br>
 Jenny Cadine or Josepha."</p>

<p>The Baroness trembled more severely than ever; every nerve
quivered;<br>
 she wiped away the tears that rose to her eyes and looked
mournfully<br>
 up to heaven.</p>

<p>"I cannot think that a Grand Commander of the Legion of Honor
will<br>
 have fallen so low," said she.</p>

<p>"For his pleasure what would he not do?" said Lisbeth. "He
robbed the<br>
 State, he will rob private persons, commit murder--who
knows?"</p>

<p>"Oh, Lisbeth!" cried the Baroness, "keep such thoughts to
yourself."</p>

<p>At this moment Louise came up to the family group, now
increased by<br>
 the arrival of the two Hulot children and little Wenceslas to
see if<br>
 their grandmother's pockets did not contain some sweetmeats.</p>

<p>"What is it, Louise?" asked one and another.</p>

<p>"A man who wants to see Mademoiselle Fischer."</p>

<p>"Who is the man?" asked Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"He is in rags, mademoiselle, and covered with flue like a
mattress-<br>
 picker; his nose is red, and he smells of brandy.--He is one of
those<br>
 men who work half of the week at most."</p>

<p>This uninviting picture had the effect of making Lisbeth hurry
into<br>
 the courtyard of the house in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, where she
found<br>
 a man smoking a pipe colored in a style that showed him an
artist in<br>
 tobacco.</p>

<p>"Why have you come here, Pere Chardin?" she asked. "It is
understood<br>
 that you go, on the first Saturday in every month, to the gate
of the<br>
 Hotel Marneffe, Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. I have just come back
after<br>
 waiting there for five hours, and you did not come."</p>

<p>"I did go there, good and charitable lady!" replied the
mattress-<br>
 picker. "But there was a game at pool going on at the Cafe
des<br>
 Savants, Rue du Cerf-Volant, and every man has his fancy. Now,
mine is<br>
 billiards. If it wasn't for billiards, I might be eating off
silver<br>
 plate. For, I tell you this," and he fumbled for a scrap of
paper in<br>
 his ragged trousers pocket, "it is billiards that leads on to a
dram<br>
 and plum-brandy.--It is ruinous, like all fine things, in the
things<br>
 it leads to. I know your orders, but the old 'un is in such a
quandary<br>
 that I came on to forbidden grounds.--If the hair was all hair,
we<br>
 might sleep sound on it; but it is mixed. God is not for all, as
the<br>
 saying goes. He has His favorites--well, He has the right. Now,
here<br>
 is the writing of your estimable relative and my very good
friend--his<br>
 political opinion."</p>

<p>Chardin attempted to trace some zigzag lines in the air with
the<br>
 forefinger of his right hand.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, not listening to him, read these few words:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"DEAR COUSIN,--Be my Providence; give me three hundred francs
this<br>
 day.</p>

<p>"HECTOR."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 "What does he want so much money for?"</p>

<p>"The lan'lord!" said Chardin, still trying to sketch
arabesques. "And<br>
 then my son, you see, has come back from Algiers through Spain
and<br>
 Bayonee, and, and--he has <i>found</i> nothing--against his
rule, for a<br>
 sharp cove is my son, saving your presence. How can he help it,
he is<br>
 in want of food; but he will repay all we lend him, for he is
going to<br>
 get up a company. He has ideas, he has, that will carry
him--"</p>

<p><br>
 "To the police court," Lisbeth put in. "He murdered my uncle; I
shall<br>
 not forget that."</p>

<p>"He--why, he could not bleed a chicken, honorable lady."</p>

<p>"Here are the three hundred francs," said Lisbeth, taking
fifteen gold<br>
 pieces out of her purse. "Now, go, and never come here
again."</p>

<p>She saw the father of the Oran storekeeper off the premises,
and<br>
 pointed out the drunken old creature to the porter.</p>

<p>"At any time when that man comes here, if by chance he should
come<br>
 again, do not let him in. If he should ask whether Monsieur
Hulot<br>
 junior or Madame la Baronne Hulot lives here, tell him you know
of no<br>
 such persons."</p>

<p>"Very good, mademoiselle."</p>

<p>"Your place depends on it if you make any mistake, even
without<br>
 intending it," said Lisbeth, in the woman's ear.--"Cousin," she
went<br>
 on to Victorin, who just now came in, "a great misfortune is
hanging<br>
 over your head."</p>

<p>"What is that?" said Victorin.</p>

<p>"Within a few days Madame Marneffe will be your wife's
stepmother."</p>

<p>"That remains to be seen," replied Victorin.</p>

<p>For six months past Lisbeth had very regularly paid a little
allowance<br>
 to Baron Hulot, her former protector, whom she now protected;
she knew<br>
 the secret of his dwelling-place, and relished Adeline's tears,
saying<br>
 to her, as we have seen, when she saw her cheerful and hopeful,
"You<br>
 may expect to find my poor cousin's name in the papers some day
under<br>
 the heading 'Police Report.' "</p>

<p>But in this, as on a former occasion, she let her vengeance
carry her<br>
 too far. She had aroused the prudent suspicions of Victorin. He
had<br>
 resolved to be rid of this Damocles' sword so constantly
flourished<br>
 over them by Lisbeth, and of the female demon to whom his mother
and<br>
 the family owed so many woes. The Prince de Wissembourg, knowing
all<br>
 about Madame Marneffe's conduct, approved of the young lawyer's
secret<br>
 project; he had promised him, as a President of the Council
can<br>
 promise, the secret assistance of the police, to enlighten
Crevel and<br>
 rescue a fine fortune from the clutches of the diabolical
courtesan,<br>
 whom he could not forgive either for causing the death of
Marshal<br>
 Hulot or for the Baron's utter ruin.</p>

<p>The words spoken by Lisbeth, "He begs of his former
mistresses,"<br>
 haunted the Baroness all night. Like sick men given over by
the<br>
 physicians, who have recourse to quacks, like men who have
fallen into<br>
 the lowest Dantesque circle of despair, or drowning creatures
who<br>
 mistake a floating stick for a hawser, she ended by believing in
the<br>
 baseness of which the mere idea had horrified her; and it
occurred to<br>
 her that she might apply for help to one of those terrible
women.</p>

<p>Next morning, without consulting her children or saying a word
to<br>
 anybody, she went to see Mademoiselle Josepha Mirah, prima donna
of<br>
 the Royal Academy of Music, to find or to lose the hope that
had<br>
 gleamed before her like a will-o'-the-wisp. At midday, the
great<br>
 singer's waiting-maid brought her in the card of the Baronne
Hulot,<br>
 saying that this person was waiting at the door, having asked
whether<br>
 Mademoiselle could receive her.</p>

<p>"Are the rooms done?"</p>

<p>"Yes, mademoiselle."</p>

<p>"And the flowers fresh?"</p>

<p>"Yes, mademoiselle."</p>

<p>"Just tell Jean to look round and see that everything is as it
should<br>
 be before showing the lady in, and treat her with the
greatest<br>
 respect. Go, and come back to dress me--I must look my very
best."</p>

<p>She went to study herself in the long glass.</p>

<p>"Now, to put our best foot foremost!" said she to herself.
"Vice under<br>
 arms to meet virtue!--Poor woman, what can she want of me? I
cannot<br>
 bear to see.</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"The noble victim of outrageous fortune!"</p>
</blockquote>

<p>And she sang through the famous aria as the maid came in
again.</p>

<p><br>
 "Madame," said the girl, "the lady has a nervous
trembling--"</p>

<p>"Offer her some orange-water, some rum, some broth--"</p>

<p>"I did, mademoiselle; but she declines everything, and says it
is an<br>
 infirmity, a nervous complaint--"</p>

<p>"Where is she?"</p>

<p>"In the big drawing-room."</p>

<p>"Well, make haste, child. Give me my smartest slippers, the
dressing-<br>
 gown embroidered by Bijou, and no end of lace frills. Do my hair
in a<br>
 way to astonish a woman.--This woman plays a part against mine;
and<br>
 tell the lady--for she is a real, great lady, my girl, nay,
more, she<br>
 is what you will never be, a woman whose prayers can rescue
souls from<br>
 your purgatory--tell her I was in bed, as I was playing last
night,<br>
 and that I am just getting up."</p>

<p>The Baroness, shown into Josepha's handsome drawing-room, did
not note<br>
 how long she was kept waiting there, though it was a long half
hour.<br>
 This room, entirely redecorated even since Josepha had had the
house,<br>
 was hung with silk in purple and gold color. The luxury which
fine<br>
 gentlemen were wont to lavish on their <i>petites maisons</i>,
the scenes<br>
 of their profligacy, of which the remains still bear witness to
the<br>
 follies from which they were so aptly named, was displayed
to<br>
 perfection, thanks to modern inventiveness, in the four rooms
opening<br>
 into each other, where the warm temperature was maintained by a
system<br>
 of hot-air pipes with invisible openings.</p>

<p>The Baroness, quite bewildered, examined each work of art with
the<br>
 greatest amazement. Here she found fortunes accounted for that
melt in<br>
 the crucible under which pleasure and vanity feed the
devouring<br>
 flames. This woman, who for twenty-six years had lived among the
dead<br>
 relics of imperial magnificence, whose eyes were accustomed to
carpets<br>
 patterned with faded flowers, rubbed gilding, silks as forlorn
as her<br>
 heart, half understood the powerful fascinations of vice as
she<br>
 studied its results. It was impossible not to wish to possess
these<br>
 beautiful things, these admirable works of art, the creation of
the<br>
 unknown talent which abounds in Paris in our day and
produces<br>
 treasures for all Europe. Each thing had the novel charm of
unique<br>
 perfection. The models being destroyed, every vase, every
figure,<br>
 every piece of sculpture was the original. This is the crowning
grace<br>
 of modern luxury. To own the thing which is not vulgarized by
the two<br>
 thousand wealthy citizens whose notion of luxury is the lavish
display<br>
 of the splendors that shops can supply, is the stamp of true
luxury--<br>
 the luxury of the fine gentlemen of the day, the shooting stars
of the<br>
 Paris firmament.</p>

<p>As she examined the flower-stands, filled with the choicest
exotic<br>
 plants, mounted in chased brass and inlaid in the style of
Boulle, the<br>
 Baroness was scared by the idea of the wealth in this apartment.
And<br>
 this impression naturally shed a glamour over the person round
whom<br>
 all this profusion was heaped. Adeline imagined that Josepha
Mirah--<br>
 whose portrait by Joseph Bridau was the glory of the adjoining
boudoir<br>
 --must be a singer of genius, a Malibran, and she expected to
see a<br>
 real star. She was sorry she had come. But she had been prompted
by a<br>
 strong and so natural a feeling, by such purely
disinterested<br>
 devotion, that she collected all her courage for the
interview.<br>
 Besides, she was about to satisfy her urgent curiosity, to see
for<br>
 herself what was the charm of this kind of women, that they
could<br>
 extract so much gold from the miserly ore of Paris mud.</p>

<p>The Baroness looked at herself to see if she were not a blot
on all<br>
 this splendor; but she was well dressed in her velvet gown, with
a<br>
 little cape trimmed with beautiful lace, and her velvet bonnet
of the<br>
 same shade was becoming. Seeing herself still as imposing as
any<br>
 queen, always a queen even in her fall, she reflected that the
dignity<br>
 of sorrow was a match for the dignity of talent.</p>

<p>At last, after much opening and shutting of doors, she saw
Josepha.<br>
 The singer bore a strong resemblance to Allori's <i>Judith</i>,
which<br>
 dwells in the memory of all who have ever seen it in the Pitti
palace,<br>
 near the door of one of the great rooms. She had the same
haughty<br>
 mien, the same fine features, black hair simply knotted, and a
yellow<br>
 wrapper with little embroidered flowers, exactly like the
brocade worn<br>
 by the immortal homicide conceived of by Bronzino's nephew.</p>

<p>"Madame la Baronne, I am quite overwhelmed by the honor you do
me in<br>
 coming here," said the singer, resolved to play her part as a
great<br>
 lady with a grace.</p>

<p>She pushed forward an easy-chair for the Baroness and seated
herself<br>
 on a stool. She discerned the faded beauty of the woman before
her,<br>
 and was filled with pity as she saw her shaken by the nervous
palsy<br>
 that, on the least excitement, became convulsive. She could read
at a<br>
 glance the saintly life described to her of old by Hulot and
Crevel;<br>
 and she not only ceased to think of a contest with her, she
humiliated<br>
 herself before a superiority she appreciated. The great artist
could<br>
 admire what the courtesan laughed to scorn.</p>

<p>"Mademoiselle, despair brought me here. It reduces us to any
means--"</p>

<p>A look in Josepha's face made the Baroness feel that she had
wounded<br>
 the woman from whom she hoped for so much, and she looked at
her. Her<br>
 beseeching eyes extinguished the flash in Josepha's; the
singer<br>
 smiled. It was a wordless dialogue of pathetic eloquence.</p>

<p>"It is now two years and a half since Monsieur Hulot left his
family,<br>
 and I do not know where to find him, though I know that he lives
in<br>
 Paris," said the Baroness with emotion. "A dream suggested to me
the<br>
 idea--an absurd one perhaps--that you may have interested
yourself in<br>
 Monsieur Hulot. If you could enable me to see him--oh!
mademoiselle, I<br>
 would pray Heaven for you every day as long as I live in this
world--"</p>

<p>Two large tears in the singer's eyes told what her reply would
be.</p>

<p>"Madame," said she, "I have done you an injury without knowing
you;<br>
 but, now that I have the happiness of seeing in you the most
perfect<br>
 virtue on earth, believe me I am sensible of the extent of my
fault; I<br>
 repent sincerely, and believe me, I will do all in my power to
remedy<br>
 it!"</p>

<p>She took Madame Hulot's hand and before the lady could do
anything to<br>
 hinder her, she kissed it respectfully, even humbling herself to
bend<br>
 one knee. Then she rose, as proud as when she stood on the stage
in<br>
 the part of <i>Mathilde</i>, and rang the bell.</p>

<p>"Go on horseback," said she to the man-servant, "and kill the
horse if<br>
 you must, to find little Bijou, Rue Saint-Maur-du-Temple, and
bring<br>
 her here. Put her into a coach and pay the coachman to come at
a<br>
 gallop. Do not lose a moment--or you lose your place.</p>

<p>"Madame," she went on, coming back to the Baroness, and
speaking to<br>
 her in respectful tones, "you must forgive me. As soon as the
Duc<br>
 d'Herouville became my protector, I dismissed the Baron, having
heard<br>
 that he was ruining his family for me. What more could I do? In
an<br>
 actress' career a protector is indispensable from the first day
of her<br>
 appearance on the boards. Our salaries do not pay half our
expenses;<br>
 we must have a temporary husband. I did not value Monsieur
Hulot, who<br>
 took me away from a rich man, a conceited idiot. Old Crevel
would<br>
 undoubtedly have married me--"</p>

<p>"So he told me," said the Baroness, interrupting her.</p>

<p>"Well, then, you see, madame, I might at this day have been an
honest<br>
 woman, with only one legitimate husband!"</p>

<p>"You have many excuses, mademoiselle," said Adeline, "and God
will<br>
 take them into account. But, for my part, far from reproaching
you, I<br>
 came, on the contrary, to make myself your debtor in
gratitude--"</p>

<p>"Madame, for nearly three years I have provided for Monsieur
le<br>
 Baron's necessities--"</p>

<p>"You?" interrupted the Baroness, with tears in her eyes. "Oh,
what can<br>
 I do for you? I can only pray--"</p>

<p>"I and Monsieur le Duc d'Herouville," the singer said, "a
noble soul,<br>
 a true gentleman--" and Josepha related the settling and
<i>marriage</i> of<br>
 Monsieur Thoul.</p>

<p>"And so, thanks to you, mademoiselle, the Baron has wanted
nothing?"</p>

<p>"We have done our best to that end, madame."</p>

<p>"And where is he now?"</p>

<p>"About six months ago, Monsieur le Duc told me that the Baron,
known<br>
 to the notary by the name of Thoul, had drawn all the eight
thousand<br>
 francs that were to have been paid to him in fixed sums once
a<br>
 quarter," replied Josepha. "We have heard no more of the
Baron,<br>
 neither I nor Monsieur d'Herouville. Our lives are so full, we
artists<br>
 are so busy, that I really have not time to run after old Thoul.
As it<br>
 happens, for the last six months, Bijou, who works for
me--his--what<br>
 shall I say--?"</p>

<p>"His mistress," said Madame Hulot.</p>

<p>"His mistress," repeated Josepha, "has not been here.
Mademoiselle<br>
 Olympe Bijou is perhaps divorced. Divorce is common in the
thirteenth<br>
 arrondissement."</p>

<p>Josepha rose, and foraging among the rare plants in her
stands, made a<br>
 charming bouquet for Madame Hulot, whose expectations, it may be
said,<br>
 were by no means fulfilled. Like those worthy fold, who take men
of<br>
 genius to be a sort of monsters, eating, drinking, walking,
and<br>
 speaking unlike other people, the Baroness had hoped to see
Josepha<br>
 the opera singer, the witch, the amorous and amusing courtesan;
she<br>
 saw a calm and well-mannered woman, with the dignity of talent,
the<br>
 simplicity of an actress who knows herself to be at night a
queen, and<br>
 also, better than all, a woman of the town whose eyes, attitude,
and<br>
 demeanor paid full and ungrudging homage to the virtuous wife,
the<br>
 <i>Mater dolorosa</i> of the sacred hymn, and who was crowning
her sorrows<br>
 with flowers, as the Madonna is crowned in Italy.</p>

<p>"Madame," said the man-servant, reappearing at the end of half
an<br>
 hour, "Madame Bijou is on her way, but you are not to expect
little<br>
 Olympe. Your needle-woman, madame, is settled in life; she
is<br>
 married--"</p>

<p>"More or less?" said Josepha.</p>

<p>"No, madame, really married. She is at the head of a very
fine<br>
 business; she has married the owner of a large and fashionable
shop,<br>
 on which they have spent millions of francs, on the Boulevard
des<br>
 Italiens; and she has left the embroidery business to her sister
and<br>
 mother. She is Madame Grenouville. The fat tradesman--"</p>

<p>"A Crevel?"</p>

<p>"Yes, madame," said the man. "Well, he has settled thirty
thousand<br>
 francs a year on Mademoiselle Bijou by the marriage articles.
And her<br>
 elder sister, they say, is going to be married to a rich
butcher."</p>

<p>"Your business looks rather hopeless, I am afraid," said
Josepha to<br>
 the Baroness. "Monsieur le Baron is no longer where I lodged
him."</p>

<p>Ten minutes later Madame Bijou was announced. Josepha very
prudently<br>
 placed the Baroness in the boudoir, and drew the curtain over
the<br>
 door.</p>

<p>"You would scare her," said she to Madame Hulot. "She would
let<br>
 nothing out if she suspected that you were interested in the<br>
 information. Leave me to catechise her. Hide there, and you will
hear<br>
 everything. It is a scene that is played quite as often in real
life<br>
 as on the stage--"</p>

<p>"Well, Mother Bijou," she said to an old woman dressed in
tartan<br>
 stuff, and who looked like a porter's wife in her Sunday best,
"so you<br>
 are all very happy? Your daughter is in luck."</p>

<p>"Oh, happy? As for that!--My daughter gives us a hundred
francs a<br>
 month, while she rides in a carriage and eats off silver
plate--she is<br>
 a millionary, is my daughter! Olympe might have lifted me above
labor.<br>
 To have to work at my age? Is that being good to me?"</p>

<p>"She ought not to be ungrateful, for she owes her beauty to
you,"<br>
 replied Josepha; "but why did she not come to see me? It was I
who<br>
 placed her in ease by settling her with my uncle."</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, with old Monsieur Thoul, but he is very old
and<br>
 broken--"</p>

<p>"But what have you done with him? Is he with you? She was very
foolish<br>
 to leave him; he is worth millions now."</p>

<p>"Heaven above us!" cried the mother. "What did I tell her when
she<br>
 behaved so badly to him, and he as mild as milk, poor old
fellow? Oh!<br>
 didn't she just give it him hot?--Olympe was perverted,
madame?"</p>

<p>"But how?"</p>

<p>"She got to know a <i>claqueur</i>, madame, saving your
presence, a man<br>
 paid to clap, you know, the grand nephew of an old
mattress-picker of<br>
 the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. This good-for-naught, as all your
good-<br>
 looking fellows are, paid to make a piece go, is the cock of the
walk<br>
 out on the Boulevard du Temple, where he works up the new plays,
and<br>
 takes care that the actresses get a reception, as he calls it.
First,<br>
 he has a good breakfast in the morning; then, before the play,
he<br>
 dines, to be 'up to the mark,' as he says; in short, he is a
born<br>
 lover of billiards and drams. 'But that is not following a
trade,' as<br>
 I said to Olympe."</p>

<p>"It is a trade men follow, unfortunately," said Josepha.</p>

<p>"Well, the rascal turned Olympe's head, and he, madame, did
not keep<br>
 good company--when I tell you he was very near being nabbed by
the<br>
 police in a tavern where thieves meet. 'Wever, Monsieur
Braulard, the<br>
 leader of the claque, got him out of that. He wears gold
earrings, and<br>
 he lives by doing nothing, hanging on to women, who are fools
about<br>
 these good-looking scamps. He spent all the money Monsieur Thoul
used<br>
 to give the child.</p>

<p>"Then the business was going to grief; what embroidery brought
in went<br>
 out across the billiard table. 'Wever, the young fellow had a
pretty<br>
 sister, madame, who, like her brother, lived by hook and by
crook, and<br>
 no better than she should be neither, over in the students'
quarter."</p>

<p>"One of the sluts at the Chaumiere," said Josepha.</p>

<p>"So, madame," said the old woman. "So Idamore, his name is
Idamore,<br>
 leastways that is what he calls himself, for his real name is
Chardin<br>
 --Idamore fancied that your uncle had a deal more money than he
owned<br>
 to, and he managed to send his sister Elodie--and that was a
stage<br>
 name he gave her--to send her to be a workwoman at our place,
without<br>
 my daughter's knowing who she was; and, gracious goodness! but
that<br>
 girl turned the whole place topsy-turvy; she got all those poor
girls<br>
 into mischief--impossible to whitewash them, saving your
presence----</p>

<p>"And she was so sharp, she won over poor old Thoul, and took
him away,<br>
 and we don't know where, and left us in a pretty fix, with a lot
of<br>
 bills coming in. To this day as ever is we have not been able
to<br>
 settle up; but my daughter, who knows all about such things,
keeps an<br>
 eye on them as they fall due.--Then, when Idamore saw he had got
hold<br>
 of the old man, through his sister, you understand, he threw
over my<br>
 daughter, and now he has got hold of a little actress at the<br>
 <i>Funambules</i>.--And that was how my daughter came to get
married, as<br>
 you will see--"</p>

<p><br>
 "But you must know where the mattress-picker lives?" said
Josepha.</p>

<p>"What! old Chardin? As if he lived anywhere at all!--He is
drunk by<br>
 six in the morning; he makes a mattress once a month; he hangs
about<br>
 the wineshops all day; he plays at pools--"</p>

<p>"He plays at pools?" said Josepha.</p>

<p>"You do not understand, madame, pools of billiards, I mean,
and he<br>
 wins three or four a day, and then he drinks."</p>

<p>"Water out of the pools, I suppose?" said Josepha. "But if
Idamore<br>
 haunts the Boulevard, by inquiring through my friend Vraulard,
we<br>
 could find him."</p>

<p>"I don't know, madame; all this was six months ago. Idamore
was one of<br>
 the sort who are bound to find their way into the police courts,
and<br>
 from that to Melun--and the--who knows--?"</p>

<p>"To the prison yard!" said Josepha.</p>

<p>"Well, madame, you know everything," said the old woman,
smiling.<br>
 "Well, if my girl had never known that scamp, she would now
be--Still,<br>
 she was in luck, all the same, you will say, for Monsieur
Grenouville<br>
 fell so much in love with her that he married her--"</p>

<p>"And what brought that about?"</p>

<p>"Olympe was desperate, madame. When she found herself left in
the<br>
 lurch for that little actress--and she took a rod out of pickle
for<br>
 her, I can tell you; my word, but she gave her a dressing!--and
when<br>
 she had lost poor old Thoul, who worshiped her, she would have
nothing<br>
 more to say to the men. 'Wever, Monsieur Grenouville, who had
been<br>
 dealing largely with us--to the tune of two hundred embroidered
China-<br>
 crape shawls every quarter--he wanted to console her; but
whether or<br>
 no, she would not listen to anything without the mayor and the
priest.<br>
 'I mean to be respectable,' said she, 'or perish!' and she stuck
to<br>
 it. Monsieur Grenouville consented to marry her, on condition of
her<br>
 giving us all up, and we agreed--"</p>

<p>"For a handsome consideration?" said Josepha, with her
usual<br>
 perspicacity.</p>

<p>"Yes, madame, ten thousand francs, and an allowance to my
father, who<br>
 is past work."</p>

<p>"I begged your daughter to make old Thoul happy, and she has
thrown me<br>
 over. That is not fair. I will take no interest in any one for
the<br>
 future! That is what comes of trying to do good! Benevolence
certainly<br>
 does not answer as a speculation!--Olympe ought, at least, to
have<br>
 given me notice of this jobbing. Now, if you find the old man
Thoul<br>
 within a fortnight, I will give you a thousand francs."</p>

<p>"It will be a hard task, my good lady; still, there are a good
many<br>
 five-franc pieces in a thousand francs, and I will try to earn
your<br>
 money."</p>

<p>"Good-morning, then, Madame Bijou."</p>

<p>On going into the boudoir, the singer found that Madame Hulot
had<br>
 fainted; but in spite of having lost consciousness, her
nervous<br>
 trembling kept her still perpetually shaking, as the pieces of a
snake<br>
 that has been cut up still wriggle and move. Strong salts, cold
water,<br>
 and all the ordinary remedies were applied to recall the
Baroness to<br>
 her senses, or rather, to the apprehension of her sorrows.</p>

<p>"Ah! mademoiselle, how far has he fallen!" cried she,
recognizing<br>
 Josepha, and finding that she was alone with her.</p>

<p>"Take heart, madame," replied the actress, who had seated
herself on a<br>
 cushion at Adeline's feet, and was kissing her hands. "We shall
find<br>
 him; and if he is in the mire, well, he must wash himself.
Believe me,<br>
 with people of good breeding it is a matter of clothes.--Allow
me to<br>
 make up for you the harm I have done you, for I see how much you
are<br>
 attached to your husband, in spite of his misconduct--or you
should<br>
 not have come here.--Well, you see, the poor man is so fond of
women.<br>
 If you had had a little of our dash, you would have kept him
from<br>
 running about the world; for you would have been what we can
never be<br>
 --all the women man wants.</p>

<p>"The State ought to subsidize a school of manners for honest
women!<br>
 But governments are so prudish! Still, they are guided by men,
whom we<br>
 privately guide. My word, I pity nations!</p>

<p>"But the matter in question is how you can be helped, and not
to laugh<br>
 at the world.--Well, madame, be easy, go home again, and do not
worry.<br>
 I will bring your Hector back to you as he was as a man of
thirty."</p>

<p>"Ah, mademoiselle, let us go to see that Madame Grenouville,"
said the<br>
 Baroness. "She surely knows something! Perhaps I may see the
Baron<br>
 this very day, and be able to snatch him at once from poverty
and<br>
 disgrace."</p>

<p>"Madame, I will show you the deep gratitude I feel towards you
by not<br>
 displaying the stage-singer Josepha, the Duc d'Herouville's
mistress,<br>
 in the company of the noblest, saintliest image of virtue. I
respect<br>
 you too much to be seen by your side. This is not acted
humility; it<br>
 is sincere homage. You make me sorry, madame, that I cannot
tread in<br>
 your footsteps, in spite of the thorns that tear your feet and
hands.<br>
 --But it cannot be helped! I am one with art, as you are one
with<br>
 virtue."</p>

<p>"Poor child!" said the Baroness, moved amid her own sorrows by
a<br>
 strange sense of compassionate sympathy; "I will pray to God for
you;<br>
 for you are the victim of society, which must have theatres.
When you<br>
 are old, repent--you will be heard if God vouchsafes to hear
the<br>
 prayers of a--"</p>

<p>"Of a martyr, madame," Josepha put in, and she respectfully
kissed the<br>
 Baroness' skirt.</p>

<p>But Adeline took the actress' hand, and drawing her towards
her,<br>
 kissed her on the forehead. Coloring with pleasure Josepha saw
the<br>
 Baroness into the hackney coach with the humblest
politeness.</p>

<p>"It must be some visiting Lady of Charity," said the
man-servant to<br>
 the maid, "for she does not do so much for any one, not even for
her<br>
 dear friend Madame Jenny Cadine."</p>

<p>"Wait a few days," said she, "and you will see him, madame, or
I<br>
 renounce the God of my fathers--and that from a Jewess, you
know, is a<br>
 promise of success."</p>

<p>At the very time when Madame Hulot was calling on Josepha,
Victorin,<br>
 in his study, was receiving an old woman of about seventy-five,
who,<br>
 to gain admission to the lawyer, had used the terrible name of
the<br>
 head of the detective force. The man in waiting announced:</p>

<p>"Madame de Saint-Esteve."</p>

<p>"I have assumed one of my business names," said she, taking a
seat.</p>

<p>Victorin felt a sort of internal chill at the sight of this
dreadful<br>
 old woman. Though handsomely dressed, she was terrible to look
upon,<br>
 for her flat, colorless, strongly-marked face, furrowed with
wrinkles,<br>
 expressed a sort of cold malignity. Marat, as a woman of that
age,<br>
 might have been like this creature, a living embodiment of the
Reign<br>
 of Terror.</p>

<p>This sinister old woman's small, pale eyes twinkled with a
tiger's<br>
 bloodthirsty greed. Her broad, flat nose, with nostrils expanded
into<br>
 oval cavities, breathed the fires of hell, and resembled the
beak of<br>
 some evil bird of prey. The spirit of intrigue lurked behind her
low,<br>
 cruel brow. Long hairs had grown from her wrinkled chin,
betraying the<br>
 masculine character of her schemes. Any one seeing that woman's
face<br>
 would have said that artists had failed in their conceptions
of<br>
 Mephistopheles.</p>

<p>"My dear sir," she began, with a patronizing air, "I have long
since<br>
 given up active business of any kind. What I have come to you to
do, I<br>
 have undertaken, for the sake of my dear nephew, whom I love
more than<br>
 I could love a son of my own.--Now, the Head of the Police--to
whom<br>
 the President of the Council said a few words in his ear as
regards<br>
 yourself, in talking to Monsieur Chapuzot--thinks as the police
ought<br>
 not to appear in a matter of this description, you understand.
They<br>
 gave my nephew a free hand, but my nephew will have nothing to
say to<br>
 it, except as before the Council; he will not be seen in
it."</p>

<p>"Then your nephew is--"</p>

<p>"You have hit it, and I am rather proud of him," said she,<br>
 interrupting the lawyer, "for he is my pupil, and he soon could
teach<br>
 his teacher.--We have considered this case, and have come to our
own<br>
 conclusions. Will you hand over thirty thousand francs to have
the<br>
 whole thing taken off your hands? I will make a clean sweep of
all,<br>
 and you need not pay till the job is done."</p>

<p>"Do you know the persons concerned?"</p>

<p>"No, my dear sir; I look for information from you. What we are
told<br>
 is, that a certain old idiot has fallen into the clutches of a
widow.<br>
 This widow, of nine-and-twenty, has played her cards so well,
that she<br>
 has forty thousand francs a year, of which she has robbed two
fathers<br>
 of families. She is now about to swallow down eighty thousand
francs a<br>
 year by marrying an old boy of sixty-one. She will thus ruin
a<br>
 respectable family, and hand over this vast fortune to the child
of<br>
 some lover by getting rid at once of the old husband.--That is
the<br>
 case as stated."</p>

<p>"Quite correct," said Victorin. "My father-in-law, Monsieur
Crevel--"</p>

<p>"Formerly a perfumer, a mayor--yes, I live in his district
under the<br>
 name of Ma'ame Nourrisson," said the woman.</p>

<p>"The other person is Madame Marneffe."</p>

<p>"I do not know," said Madame de Saint-Esteve. "But within
three days I<br>
 will be in a position to count her shifts."</p>

<p>"Can you hinder the marriage?" asked Victorin.</p>

<p>"How far have they got?"</p>

<p>"To the second time of asking."</p>

<p>"We must carry off the woman.--To-day is Sunday--there are but
three<br>
 days, for they will be married on Wednesday, no doubt; it is<br>
 impossible.--But she may be killed--"</p>

<p>Victorin Hulot started with an honest man's horror at hearing
these<br>
 five words uttered in cold blood.</p>

<p>"Murder?" said he. "And how could you do it?"</p>

<p>"For forty years, now, monsieur, we have played the part of
fate,"<br>
 replied she, with terrible pride, "and do just what we will in
Paris.<br>
 More than one family--even in the Faubourg Saint-Germain--has
told me<br>
 all its secrets, I can tell you. I have made and spoiled many a
match,<br>
 I have destroyed many a will and saved many a man's honor. I
have in<br>
 there," and she tapped her forehead, "a store of secrets which
are<br>
 worth thirty-six thousand francs a year to me; and you--you will
be<br>
 one of my lambs, hoh! Could such a woman as I am be what I am if
she<br>
 revealed her ways and means? I act.</p>

<p>"Whatever I may do, sir, will be the result of an accident;
you need<br>
 feel no remorse. You will be like a man cured by a clairvoyant;
by the<br>
 end of a month, it seems all the work of Nature."</p>

<p>Victorin broke out in a cold sweat. The sight of an
executioner would<br>
 have shocked him less than this prolix and pretentious Sister of
the<br>
 Hulks. As he looked at her purple-red gown, she seemed to him
dyed in<br>
 blood.</p>

<p>"Madame, I do not accept the help of your experience and skill
if<br>
 success is to cost anybody's life, or the least criminal act is
to<br>
 come of it."</p>

<p>"You are a great baby, monsieur," replied the woman; "you wish
to<br>
 remain blameless in your own eyes, while you want your enemy to
be<br>
 overthrown."</p>

<p>Victorin shook his head in denial.</p>

<p>"Yes," she went on, "you want this Madame Marneffe to drop the
prey<br>
 she has between her teeth. But how do you expect to make a tiger
drop<br>
 his piece of beef? Can you do it by patting his back and saying,
'Poor<br>
 Puss'? You are illogical. You want a battle fought, but you
object to<br>
 blows.--Well, I grant you the innocence you are so careful over.
I<br>
 have always found that there was material for hypocrisy in
honesty!<br>
 One day, three months hence, a poor priest will come to beg of
you<br>
 forty thousand francs for a pious work--a convent to be rebuilt
in the<br>
 Levant--in the desert.--If you are satisfied with your lot, give
the<br>
 good man the money. You will pay more than that into the
treasury. It<br>
 will be a mere trifle in comparison with what you will get, I
can tell<br>
 you."</p>

<p>She rose, standing on the broad feet that seemed to overflow
her satin<br>
 shoes; she smiled, bowed, and vanished.</p>

<p>"The Devil has a sister," said Victorin, rising.</p>

<p>He saw the hideous stranger to the door, a creature called up
from the<br>
 dens of the police, as on the stage a monster comes up from the
third<br>
 cellar at the touch of a fairy's wand in a
ballet-extravaganza.</p>

<p>After finishing what he had to do at the Courts, Victorin went
to call<br>
 on Monsieur Chapuzot, the head of one of the most important
branches<br>
 of the Central Police, to make some inquiries about the
stranger.<br>
 Finding Monsieur Chapuzot alone in his office, Victorin thanked
him<br>
 for his help.</p>

<p>"You sent me an old woman who might stand for the incarnation
of the<br>
 criminal side of Paris."</p>

<p>Monsieur Chapuzot laid his spectacles on his papers and looked
at the<br>
 lawyer with astonishment.</p>

<p>"I should not have taken the liberty of sending anybody to see
you<br>
 without giving you notice beforehand, or a line of
introduction," said<br>
 he.</p>

<p>"Then it was Monsieur le Prefet--?"</p>

<p>"I think not," said Chapuzot. "The last time that the Prince
de<br>
 Wissembourg dined with the Minister of the Interior, he spoke to
the<br>
 Prefet of the position in which you find yourself--a
deplorable<br>
 position--and asked him if you could be helped in any friendly
way.<br>
 The Prefet, who was interested by the regrets his Excellency
expressed<br>
 as to this family affair, did me the honor to consult me about
it.</p>

<p>"Ever since the present Prefet has held the reins of this
department--<br>
 so useful and so vilified--he has made it a rule that family
matters<br>
 are never to be interfered in. He is right in principle and
in<br>
 morality; but in practice he is wrong. In the forty-five years
that I<br>
 have served in the police, it did, from 1799 till 1815, great
services<br>
 in family concerns. Since 1820 a constitutional government and
the<br>
 press have completely altered the conditions of existence. So
my<br>
 advice, indeed, was not to intervene in such a case, and the
Prefet<br>
 did me the honor to agree with my remarks. The Head of the
detective<br>
 branch has orders, in my presence, to take no steps; so if you
have<br>
 had any one sent to you by him, he will be reprimanded. It might
cost<br>
 him his place. 'The Police will do this or that,' is easily
said; the<br>
 Police, the Police! But, my dear sir, the Marshal and the
Ministerial<br>
 Council do not know what the Police is. The Police alone knows
the<br>
 Police; but as for ours, only Fouche, Monsieur Lenoir, and
Monsieur de<br>
 Sartines have had any notion of it.--Everything is changed now;
we are<br>
 reduced and disarmed! I have seen many private disasters
develop,<br>
 which I could have checked with five grains of despotic
power.--We<br>
 shall be regretted by the very men who have crippled us when
they,<br>
 like you, stand face to face with some moral monstrosities,
which<br>
 ought to be swept away as we sweep away mud! In public affairs
the<br>
 Police is expected to foresee everything, or when the safety of
the<br>
 public is involved--but the family?--It is sacred! I would do
my<br>
 utmost to discover and hinder a plot against the King's life, I
would<br>
 see through the walls of a house; but as to laying a finger on
a<br>
 household, or peeping into private interests--never, so long as
I sit<br>
 in this office. I should be afraid."</p>

<p><br>
 "Of what?"</p>

<p>"Of the Press, Monsieur le Depute, of the left centre."</p>

<p>"What, then, can I do?" said Hulot, after a pause.</p>

<p>"Well, you are the Family," said the official. "That settles
it; you<br>
 can do what you please. But as to helping you, as to using the
Police<br>
 as an instrument of private feelings, and interests, how is
it<br>
 possible? There lies, you see, the secret of the
persecution,<br>
 necessary, but pronounced illegal, by the Bench, which was
brought to<br>
 bear against the predecessor of our present chief detective.
Bibi-<br>
 Lupin undertook investigations for the benefit of private
persons.<br>
 This might have led to great social dangers. With the means at
his<br>
 command, the man would have been formidable, an underlying
fate--"</p>

<p>"But in my place?" said Hulot.</p>

<p>"Why, you ask my advice? You who sell it!" replied Monsieur
Chapuzot.<br>
 "Come, come, my dear sir, you are making fun of me."</p>

<p>Hulot bowed to the functionary, and went away without seeing
that<br>
 gentleman's almost imperceptible shrug as he rose to open the
door.</p>

<p>"And he wants to be a statesman!" said Chapuzot to himself as
he<br>
 returned to his reports.</p>

<p>Victorin went home, still full of perplexities which he could
confide<br>
 to no one.</p>

<p>At dinner the Baroness joyfully announced to her children that
within<br>
 a month their father might be sharing their comforts, and end
his days<br>
 in peace among his family.</p>

<p>"Oh, I would gladly give my three thousand six hundred francs
a year<br>
 to see the Baron here!" cried Lisbeth. "But, my dear Adeline, do
not<br>
 dream beforehand of such happiness, I entreat you!"</p>

<p>"Lisbeth is right," said Celestine. "My dear mother, wait till
the<br>
 end."</p>

<p>The Baroness, all feeling and all hope, related her visit to
Josepha,<br>
 expressed her sense of the misery of such women in the midst of
good<br>
 fortune, and mentioned Chardin the mattress-picker, the father
of the<br>
 Oran storekeeper, thus showing that her hopes were not
groundless.</p>

<p>By seven next morning Lisbeth had driven in a hackney coach to
the<br>
 Quai de la Tournelle, and stopped the vehicle at the corner of
the Rue<br>
 de Poissy.</p>

<p>"Go to the Rue des Bernardins," said she to the driver, "No.
7, a<br>
 house with an entry and no porter. Go up to the fourth floor,
ring at<br>
 the door to the left, on which you will see 'Mademoiselle
Chardin--<br>
 Lace and shawls mended.' She will answer the door. Ask for
the<br>
 Chevalier. She will say he is out. Say in reply, 'Yes, I know,
but<br>
 find him, for his <i>bonne</i> is out on the quay in a coach,
and wants to<br>
 see him.' "</p>

<p>Twenty minutes later, an old man, who looked about eighty,
with<br>
 perfectly white hair, and a nose reddened by the cold, and a
pale,<br>
 wrinkled face like an old woman's, came shuffling slowly along
in list<br>
 slippers, a shiny alpaca overcoat hanging on his stooping
shoulders,<br>
 no ribbon at his buttonhole, the sleeves of an under-vest
showing<br>
 below his coat-cuffs, and his shirt-front unpleasantly dingy.
He<br>
 approached timidly, looked at the coach, recognized Lisbeth, and
came<br>
 to the window.</p>

<p>"Why, my dear cousin, what a state you are in!"</p>

<p>"Elodie keeps everything for herself," said Baron Hulot.
"Those<br>
 Chardins are a blackguard crew."</p>

<p>"Will you come home to us?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, no!" cried the old man. "I would rather go to
America."</p>

<p>"Adeline is on the scent."</p>

<p>"Oh, if only some one would pay my debts!" said the Baron,
with a<br>
 suspicious look, "for Samanon is after me."</p>

<p>"We have not paid up the arrears yet; your son still owes a
hundred<br>
 thousand francs."</p>

<p>"Poor boy!"</p>

<p>"And your pension will not be free before seven or eight
months.--If<br>
 you will wait a minute, I have two thousand francs here."</p>

<p>The Baron held out his hand with fearful avidity.</p>

<p>"Give it me, Lisbeth, and may God reward you! Give it me; I
know where<br>
 to go."</p>

<p>"But you will tell me, old wretch?"</p>

<p>"Yes, yes. Then I can wait eight months, for I have discovered
a<br>
 little angel, a good child, an innocent thing not old enough to
be<br>
 depraved."</p>

<p>"Do not forget the police-court," said Lisbeth, who flattered
herself<br>
 that she would some day see Hulot there.</p>

<p>"No.--It is in the Rue de Charonne," said the Baron, "a part
of the<br>
 town where no fuss is made about anything. No one will ever find
me<br>
 there. I am called Pere Thorec, Lisbeth, and I shall be taken
for a<br>
 retired cabinet-maker; the girl is fond of me, and I will not
allow my<br>
 back to be shorn any more."</p>

<p>"No, that has been done," said Lisbeth, looking at his
coat.<br>
 "Supposing I take you there."</p>

<p>Baron Hulot got into the coach, deserting Mademoiselle Elodie
without<br>
 taking leave of her, as he might have tossed aside a novel he
had<br>
 finished.</p>

<p>In half an hour, during which Baron Hulot talked to Lisbeth of
nothing<br>
 but little Atala Judici--for he had fallen by degrees to those
base<br>
 passions that ruin old men--she set him down with two thousand
francs<br>
 in his pocket, in the Rue de Charonne, Faubourg Saint-Antoine,
at the<br>
 door of a doubtful and sinister-looking house.</p>

<p>"Good-day, cousin; so now you are to be called Thorec, I
suppose? Send<br>
 none but commissionaires if you need me, and always take them
from<br>
 different parts."</p>

<p>"Trust me! Oh, I am really very lucky!" said the Baron, his
face<br>
 beaming with the prospect of new and future happiness.</p>

<p>"No one can find him there," said Lisbeth; and she paid the
coach at<br>
 the Boulevard Beaumarchais, and returned to the Rue
Louis-le-Grand in<br>
 the omnibus.</p>

<p>On the following day Crevel was announced at the hour when all
the<br>
 family were together in the drawing-room, just after
breakfast.<br>
 Celestine flew to throw her arms round her father's neck, and
behaved<br>
 as if she had seen him only the day before, though in fact he
had not<br>
 called there for more than two years.</p>

<p>"Good-morning, father," said Victorin, offering his hand.</p>

<p>"Good-morning, children," said the pompous Crevel. "Madame la
Baronne,<br>
 I throw myself at your feet! Good Heavens, how the children
grow! they<br>
 are pushing us off the perch--'Grand-pa,' they say, 'we want our
turn<br>
 in the sunshine.'--Madame la Comtesse, you are as lovely as
ever," he<br>
 went on, addressing Hortense.--"Ah, ha! and here is the best of
good<br>
 money: Cousin Betty, the Wise Virgin."</p>

<p>"Why, you are really very comfortable here," said he, after
scattering<br>
 these greetings with a cackle of loud laughter that hardly moved
the<br>
 rubicund muscles of his broad face.</p>

<p>He looked at his daughter with some contempt.</p>

<p>"My dear Celestine, I will make you a present of all my
furniture out<br>
 of the Rue des Saussayes; it will just do here. Your
drawing-room<br>
 wants furnishing up.--Ha! there is that little rogue Wenceslas.
Well,<br>
 and are we very good children, I wonder? You must have pretty
manners,<br>
 you know."</p>

<p>"To make up for those who have none," said Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"That sarcasm, my dear Lisbeth, has lost its sting. I am
going, my<br>
 dear children, to put an end to the false position in which I
have so<br>
 long been placed; I have come, like a good father, to announce
my<br>
 approaching marriage without any circumlocution."</p>

<p>"You have a perfect right to marry," said Victorin. "And for
my part,<br>
 I give you back the promise you made me when you gave me the
hand of<br>
 my dear Celestine--"</p>

<p>"What promise?" said Crevel.</p>

<p>"Not to marry," replied the lawyer. "You will do me the
justice to<br>
 allow that I did not ask you to pledge yourself, that you gave
your<br>
 word quite voluntarily and in spite of my desire, for I pointed
out to<br>
 you at the time that you were unwise to bind yourself."</p>

<p>"Yes, I do remember, my dear fellow," said Crevel, ashamed of
himself.<br>
 "But, on my honor, if you will but live with Madame Crevel,
my<br>
 children, you will find no reason to repent.--Your good
feeling<br>
 touches me, Victorin, and you will find that generosity to me is
not<br>
 unrewarded.--Come, by the Poker! welcome your stepmother and
come to<br>
 the wedding."</p>

<p>"But you have not told us the lady's name, papa," said
Celestine.</p>

<p>"Why, it is an open secret," replied Crevel. "Do not let us
play at<br>
 guess who can! Lisbeth must have told you."</p>

<p>"My dear Monsieur Crevel," replied Lisbeth, "there are certain
names<br>
 we never utter here--"</p>

<p>"Well, then, it is Madame Marneffe."</p>

<p>"Monsieur Crevel," said the lawyer very sternly, "neither my
wife nor<br>
 I can be present at that marriage; not out of interest, for I
spoke in<br>
 all sincerity just now. Yes, I am most happy to think that you
may<br>
 find happiness in this union; but I act on considerations of
honor and<br>
 good feeling which you must understand, and which I cannot speak
of<br>
 here, as they reopen wounds still ready to bleed----"</p>

<p>The Baroness telegraphed a signal to Hortense, who tucked her
little<br>
 one under her arm, saying, "Come Wenceslas, and have your
bath!--Good-<br>
 bye, Monsieur Crevel."</p>

<p>The Baroness also bowed to Crevel without a word; and Crevel
could not<br>
 help smiling at the child's astonishment when threatened with
this<br>
 impromptu tubbing.</p>

<p>"You, monsieur," said Victorin, when he found himself alone
with<br>
 Lisbeth, his wife, and his father-in-law, "are about to marry a
woman<br>
 loaded with the spoils of my father; it was she who, in cold
blood,<br>
 brought him down to such depths; a woman who is the
son-in-law's<br>
 mistress after ruining the father-in-law; who is the cause of
constant<br>
 grief to my sister!--And you fancy that I shall seem to sanction
your<br>
 madness by my presence? I deeply pity you, dear Monsieur Crevel;
you<br>
 have no family feeling; you do not understand the unity of the
honor<br>
 which binds the members of it together. There is no arguing
with<br>
 passion--as I have too much reason to know. The slaves of
their<br>
 passions are as deaf as they are blind. Your daughter Celestine
has<br>
 too strong a sense of her duty to proffer a word of
reproach."</p>

<p>"That would, indeed, be a pretty thing!" cried Crevel, trying
to cut<br>
 short this harangue.</p>

<p>"Celestine would not be my wife if she made the slightest<br>
 remonstrance," the lawyer went on. "But I, at least, may try to
stop<br>
 you before you step over the precipice, especially after giving
you<br>
 ample proof of my disinterestedness. It is not your fortune, it
is you<br>
 that I care about. Nay, to make it quite plain to you, I may
add, if<br>
 it were only to set your mind at ease with regard to your
marriage<br>
 contract, that I am now in a position which leaves me with
nothing to<br>
 wish for--"</p>

<p>"Thanks to me!" exclaimed Crevel, whose face was purple.</p>

<p>"Thanks to Celestine's fortune," replied Victorin. "And if you
regret<br>
 having given to your daughter as a present from yourself, a sum
which<br>
 is not half what her mother left her, I can only say that we
are<br>
 prepared to give it back."</p>

<p>"And do you not know, my respected son-in-law," said Crevel,
striking<br>
 an attitude, "that under the shelter of my name Madame Marneffe
is not<br>
 called upon to answer for her conduct excepting as my wife--as
Madame<br>
 Crevel?"</p>

<p>"That is, no doubt, quite the correct thing," said the lawyer;
"very<br>
 generous so far as the affections are concerned and the vagaries
of<br>
 passion; but I know of no name, nor law, nor title that can
shelter<br>
 the theft of three hundred thousand francs so meanly wrung from
my<br>
 father!--I tell you plainly, my dear father-in-law, your future
wife<br>
 is unworthy of you, she is false to you, and is madly in love
with my<br>
 brother-in-law, Steinbock, whose debts she had paid."</p>

<p>"It is I who paid them!"</p>

<p>"Very good," said Hulot; "I am glad for Count Steinbock's
sake; he may<br>
 some day repay the money. But he is loved, much loved, and
often--"</p>

<p>"Loved!" cried Crevel, whose face showed his utter
bewilderment. "It<br>
 is cowardly, and dirty, and mean, and cheap, to calumniate a
woman!--<br>
 When a man says such things, monsieur, he must bring proof."</p>

<p>"I will bring proof."</p>

<p>"I shall expect it."</p>

<p>"By the day after to-morrow, my dear Monsieur Crevel, I shall
be able<br>
 to tell you the day, the hour, the very minute when I can expose
the<br>
 horrible depravity of your future wife."</p>

<p>"Very well; I shall be delighted," said Crevel, who had
recovered<br>
 himself.</p>

<p>"Good-bye, my children, for the present; good-bye,
Lisbeth."</p>

<p>"See him out, Lisbeth," said Celestine in an undertone.</p>

<p>"And is this the way you take yourself off?" cried Lisbeth to
Crevel.</p>

<p>"Ah, ha!" said Crevel, "my son-in-law is too clever by half;
he is<br>
 getting on. The Courts and the Chamber, judicial trickery
and<br>
 political dodges, are making a man of him with a vengeance!--So
he<br>
 knows I am to be married on Wednesday, and on a Sunday my
gentleman<br>
 proposes to fix the hour, within three days, when he can prove
that my<br>
 wife is unworthy of me. That is a good story!--Well, I am going
back<br>
 to sign the contract. Come with me, Lisbeth--yes, come. They
will<br>
 never know. I meant to have left Celestine forty thousand francs
a<br>
 year; but Hulot has just behaved in a way to alienate my
affection for<br>
 ever."</p>

<p>"Give me ten minutes, Pere Crevel; wait for me in your
carriage at the<br>
 gate. I will make some excuse for going out."</p>

<p>"Very well--all right."</p>

<p>"My dears," said Lisbeth, who found all the family reassembled
in the<br>
 drawing-room, "I am going with Crevel: the marriage contract is
to be<br>
 signed this afternoon, and I shall hear what he has settled. It
will<br>
 probably be my last visit to that woman. Your father is furious;
he<br>
 will disinherit you--"</p>

<p>"His vanity will prevent that," said the son-in-law. "He was
bent on<br>
 owning the estate of Presles, and he will keep it; I know him.
Even if<br>
 he were to have children, Celestine would still have half of
what he<br>
 might leave; the law forbids his giving away all his
fortune.--Still,<br>
 these questions are nothing to me; I am only thinking of our
honor.--<br>
 Go then, cousin," and he pressed Lisbeth's hand, "and listen
carefully<br>
 to the contract."</p>

<p>Twenty minutes after, Lisbeth and Crevel reached the house in
the Rue<br>
 Barbet, where Madame Marneffe was awaiting, in mild impatience,
the<br>
 result of a step taken by her commands. Valerie had in the end
fallen<br>
 a prey to the absorbing love which, once in her life, masters
a<br>
 woman's heart. Wenceslas was its object, and, a failure as an
artist,<br>
 he became in Madame Marneffe's hands a lover so perfect that he
was to<br>
 her what she had been to Baron Hulot.</p>

<p>Valerie was holding a slipper in one hand, and Steinbock
clasped the<br>
 other, while her head rested on his shoulder. The rambling<br>
 conversation in which they had been engaged ever since Crevel
went out<br>
 may be ticketed, like certain lengthy literary efforts of our
day,<br>
 "<i>All rights reserved</i>," for it cannot be reproduced. This
masterpiece<br>
 of personal poetry naturally brought a regret to the artist's
lips,<br>
 and he said, not without some bitterness:</p>

<p>"What a pity it is that I married; for if I had but waited, as
Lisbeth<br>
 told me, I might now have married you."</p>

<p>"Who but a Pole would wish to make a wife of a devoted
mistress?"<br>
 cried Valerie. "To change love into duty, and pleasure into a
bore."</p>

<p>"I know you to be so fickle," replied Steinbock. "Did I not
hear you<br>
 talking to Lisbeth of that Brazilian, Baron Montes?"</p>

<p>"Do you want to rid me of him?"</p>

<p>"It would be the only way to hinder his seeing you," said the
ex-<br>
 sculptor.</p>

<p>"Let me tell you, my darling--for I tell you everything," said
Valerie<br>
 --"I was saving him up for a husband.--The promises I have made
to<br>
 that man!--Oh, long before I knew you," said she, in reply to
a<br>
 movement from Wenceslas. "And those promises, of which he
avails<br>
 himself to plague me, oblige me to get married almost secretly;
for if<br>
 he should hear that I am marrying Crevel, he is the sort of man
that--<br>
 that would kill me."</p>

<p>"Oh, as to that!" said Steinbock, with a scornful expression,
which<br>
 conveyed that such a danger was small indeed for a woman beloved
by a<br>
 Pole.</p>

<p>And in the matter of valor there is no brag or bravado in a
Pole, so<br>
 thoroughly and seriously brave are they all.</p>

<p>"And that idiot Crevel," she went on, "who wants to make a
great<br>
 display and indulge his taste for inexpensive magnificence in
honor of<br>
 the wedding, places me in difficulties from which I see no
escape."</p>

<p>Could Valerie confess to this man, whom she adored, that since
the<br>
 discomfiture of Baron Hulot, this Baron Henri Montes had
inherited the<br>
 privilege of calling on her at all hours of the day or night;
and<br>
 that, notwithstanding her cleverness, she was still puzzled to
find a<br>
 cause of quarrel in which the Brazilian might seem to be solely
in the<br>
 wrong? She knew the Baron's almost savage temper--not unlike
Lisbeth's<br>
 --too well not to quake as she thought of this Othello of Rio
de<br>
 Janeiro.</p>

<p><br>
 As the carriage drove up, Steinbock released Valerie, for his
arm was<br>
 round her waist, and took up a newspaper, in which he was
found<br>
 absorbed. Valerie was stitching with elaborate care at the
slippers<br>
 she was working for Crevel.</p>

<p>"How they slander her!" whispered Lisbeth to Crevel, pointing
to this<br>
 picture as they opened the door. "Look at her hair--not in the
least<br>
 tumbled. To hear Victorin, you might have expected to find two
turtle-<br>
 doves in a nest."</p>

<p>"My dear Lisbeth," cried Crevel, in his favorite position,
"you see<br>
 that to turn Lucretia into Aspasia, you have only to inspire
a<br>
 passion!"</p>

<p>"And have I not always told you," said Lisbeth, "that women
like a<br>
 burly profligate like you?"</p>

<p>"And she would be most ungrateful, too," said Crevel; "for as
to the<br>
 money I have spent here, Grindot and I alone can tell!"</p>

<p>And he waved a hand at the staircase.</p>

<p>In decorating this house, which Crevel regarded as his own,
Grindot<br>
 had tried to compete with Cleretti, in whose hands the Duc<br>
 d'Herouville had placed Josepha's villa. But Crevel, incapable
of<br>
 understanding art, had, like all sordid souls, wanted to spend
a<br>
 certain sum fixed beforehand. Grindot, fettered by a contract,
had<br>
 found it impossible to embody his architectural dream.</p>

<p>The difference between Josepha's house and that in the Rue
Barbet was<br>
 just that between the individual stamp on things and commonness.
The<br>
 objects you admired at Crevel's were to be bought in any shop.
These<br>
 two types of luxury are divided by the river Million. A mirror,
if<br>
 unique, is worth six thousand francs; a mirror designed by a<br>
 manufacturer who turns them out by the dozen costs five hundred.
A<br>
 genuine lustre by Boulle will sell at a public auction for
three<br>
 thousand francs; the same thing reproduced by casting may be
made for<br>
 a thousand or twelve hundred; one is archaeologically what a
picture<br>
 by Raphael is in painting, the other is a copy. At what would
you<br>
 value a copy of a Raphael? Thus Crevel's mansion was a
splendid<br>
 example of the luxury of idiots, while Josepha's was a perfect
model<br>
 of an artist's home.</p>

<p>"War is declared," said Crevel, going up to Madame
Marneffe.</p>

<p>She rang the bell.</p>

<p>"Go and find Monsieur Berthier," said she to the man-servant,
"and do<br>
 not return without him. If you had succeeded," said she,
embracing<br>
 Crevel, "we would have postponed our happiness, my dear Daddy,
and<br>
 have given a really splendid entertainment; but when a whole
family is<br>
 set against a match, my dear, decency requires that the wedding
shall<br>
 be a quiet one, especially when the lady is a widow."</p>

<p>"On the contrary, I intend to make a display of magnificence
<i>a la</i><br>
 Louis XIV.," said Crevel, who of late had held the eighteenth
century<br>
 rather cheap. "I have ordered new carriages; there is one for
monsieur<br>
 and one for madame, two neat coupes; and a chaise, a
handsome<br>
 traveling carriage with a splendid hammercloth, on springs
that<br>
 tremble like Madame Hulot."</p>

<p>"Oh, ho! <i>You intend</i>?--Then you have ceased to be my
lamb?--No, no,<br>
 my friend, you will do what <i>I</i> intend. We will sign the
contract<br>
 quietly--just ourselves--this afternoon. Then, on Wednesday, we
will<br>
 be regularly married, really married, in mufti, as my poor
mother<br>
 would have said. We will walk to church, plainly dressed, and
have<br>
 only a low mass. Our witnesses are Stidmann, Steinbock, Vignon,
and<br>
 Massol, all wide-awake men, who will be at the mairie by chance,
and<br>
 who will so far sacrifice themselves as to attend mass.</p>

<p>"Your colleague will perform the civil marriage, for once in a
way, as<br>
 early as half-past nine. Mass is at ten; we shall be at home
to<br>
 breakfast by half-past eleven.</p>

<p>"I have promised our guests that we will sit at table till
the<br>
 evening. There will be Bixiou, your old official chum du
Tillet,<br>
 Lousteau, Vernisset, Leon de Lora, Vernou, all the wittiest men
in<br>
 Paris, who will not know that we are married. We will play them
a<br>
 little trick, we will get just a little tipsy, and Lisbeth must
join<br>
 us. I want her to study matrimony; Bixiou shall make love to
her, and<br>
 --and enlighten her darkness."</p>

<p>For two hours Madame Marneffe went on talking nonsense, and
Crevel<br>
 made this judicious reflection:</p>

<p>"How can so light-hearted a creature be utterly depraved?
Feather-<br>
 brained, yes! but wicked? Nonsense!"</p>

<p>"Well, and what did the young people say about me?" said
Valerie to<br>
 Crevel at a moment when he sat down by her on the sofa. "All
sorts of<br>
 horrors?"</p>

<p>"They will have it that you have a criminal passion for
Wenceslas--<br>
 you, who are virtue itself."</p>

<p>"I love him!--I should think so, my little Wenceslas!" cried
Valerie,<br>
 calling the artist to her, taking his face in her hands, and
kissing<br>
 his forehead. "A poor boy with no fortune, and no one to depend
on!<br>
 Cast off by a carrotty giraffe! What do you expect, Crevel?
Wenceslas<br>
 is my poet, and I love him as if he were my own child, and make
no<br>
 secret of it. Bah! your virtuous women see evil everywhere and
in<br>
 everything. Bless me, could they not sit by a man without doing
wrong?<br>
 I am a spoilt child who has had all it ever wanted, and bonbons
no<br>
 longer excite me.--Poor things! I am sorry for them!</p>

<p>"And who slandered me so?"</p>

<p>"Victorin," said Crevel.</p>

<p>"Then why did you not stop his mouth, the odious legal macaw!
with the<br>
 story of the two hundred thousand francs and his mamma?"</p>

<p>"Oh, the Baroness had fled," said Lisbeth.</p>

<p>"They had better take care, Lisbeth," said Madame Marneffe,
with a<br>
 frown. "Either they will receive me and do it handsomely, and
come to<br>
 their stepmother's house--all the party!--or I will see them in
lower<br>
 depths than the Baron has reached, and you may tell them I said
so!--<br>
 At last I shall turn nasty. On my honor, I believe that evil is
the<br>
 scythe with which to cut down the good."</p>

<p>At three o'clock Monsieur Berthier, Cardot's successor, read
the<br>
 marriage-contract, after a short conference with Crevel, for
some of<br>
 the articles were made conditional on the action taken by
Monsieur and<br>
 Madame Victorin Hulot.</p>

<p>Crevel settled on his wife a fortune consisting, in the first
place,<br>
 of forty thousand francs in dividends on specified
securities;<br>
 secondly, of the house and all its contents; and thirdly, of
three<br>
 million francs not invested. He also assigned to his wife
every<br>
 benefit allowed by law; he left all the property free of duty;
and in<br>
 the event of their dying without issue, each devised to the
survivor<br>
 the whole of their property and real estate.</p>

<p>By this arrangement the fortune left to Celestine and her
husband was<br>
 reduced to two millions of francs in capital. If Crevel and his
second<br>
 wife should have children, Celestine's share was limited to
five<br>
 hundred thousand francs, as the life-interest in the rest was
to<br>
 accrue to Valerie. This would be about the ninth part of his
whole<br>
 real and personal estate.</p>

<p>Lisbeth returned to dine in the Rue Louis-le-Grand, despair
written on<br>
 her face. She explained and bewailed the terms of the
marriage-<br>
 contract, but found Celestine and her husband insensible to
the<br>
 disastrous news.</p>

<p>"You have provoked your father, my children. Madame Marneffe
swears<br>
 that you shall receive Monsieur Crevel's wife and go to her
house,"<br>
 said she.</p>

<p>"Never!" said Victorin.</p>

<p>"Never!" said Celestine.</p>

<p>"Never!" said Hortense.</p>

<p>Lisbeth was possessed by the wish to crush the haughty
attitude<br>
 assumed by all the Hulots.</p>

<p>"She seems to have arms that she can turn against you," she
replied.<br>
 "I do not know all about it, but I shall find out. She spoke
vaguely<br>
 of some history of two hundred thousand francs in which Adeline
is<br>
 implicated."</p>

<p>The Baroness fell gently backward on the sofa she was sitting
on in a<br>
 fit of hysterical sobbing.</p>

<p>"Go there, go, my children!" she cried. "Receive the woman!
Monsieur<br>
 Crevel is an infamous wretch. He deserves the worst
punishment<br>
 imaginable.--Do as the woman desires you! She is a monster--she
knows<br>
 all!"</p>

<p>After gasping out these words with tears and sobs, Madame
Hulot<br>
 collected her strength to go to her room, leaning on her
daughter and<br>
 Celestine.</p>

<p>"What is the meaning of all this?" cried Lisbeth, left alone
with<br>
 Victorin.</p>

<p>The lawyer stood rigid, in very natural dismay, and did not
hear her.</p>

<p>"What is the matter, my dear Victorin?"</p>

<p>"I am horrified!" said he, and his face scowled darkly. "Woe
to<br>
 anybody who hurts my mother! I have no scruples then. I would
crush<br>
 that woman like a viper if I could!--What, does she attack my
mother's<br>
 life, my mother's honor?"</p>

<p>"She said, but do not repeat it, my dear Victorin--she said
you should<br>
 all fall lower even than your father. And she scolded Crevel
roundly<br>
 for not having shut your mouths with this secret that seems to
be such<br>
 a terror to Adeline."</p>

<p>A doctor was sent for, for the Baroness was evidently worse.
He gave<br>
 her a draught containing a large dose of opium, and Adeline,
having<br>
 swallowed it, fell into a deep sleep; but the whole family
were<br>
 greatly alarmed.</p>

<p>Early next morning Victorin went out, and on his way to the
Courts<br>
 called at the Prefecture of the Police, where he begged Vautrin,
the<br>
 head of the detective department, to send him Madame de
Saint-Esteve.</p>

<p>"We are forbidden, monsieur, to meddle in your affairs; but
Madame de<br>
 Saint-Esteve is in business, and will attend to your orders,"
replied<br>
 this famous police officer.</p>

<p>On his return home, the unhappy lawyer was told that his
mother's<br>
 reason was in danger. Doctor Bianchon, Doctor Larabit, and
Professor<br>
 Angard had met in consultation, and were prepared to apply
heroic<br>
 remedies to hinder the rush of blood to the head. At the moment
when<br>
 Victorin was listening to Doctor Bianchon, who was giving him,
at some<br>
 length, his reasons for hoping that the crisis might be got
over, the<br>
 man-servant announced that a client, Madame de Saint-Esteve,
was<br>
 waiting to see him. Victorin left Bianchon in the middle of a
sentence<br>
 and flew downstairs like a madman.</p>

<p><br>
 "Is there any hereditary lunacy in the family?" said
Bianchon,<br>
 addressing Larabit.</p>

<p>The doctors departed, leaving a hospital attendant, instructed
by<br>
 them, to watch Madame Hulot.</p>

<p>"A whole life of virtue!----" was the only sentence the
sufferer had<br>
 spoken since the attack.</p>

<p>Lisbeth never left Adeline's bedside; she sat up all night,
and was<br>
 much admired by the two younger women.</p>

<p>"Well, my dear Madame de Saint-Esteve," said Victorin, showing
the<br>
 dreadful old woman into his study and carefully shutting the
doors,<br>
 "how are we getting on?"</p>

<p>"Ah, ha! my dear friend," said she, looking at Victorin with
cold<br>
 irony. "So you have thought things over?"</p>

<p>"Have you done anything?"</p>

<p>"Will you pay fifty thousand francs?"</p>

<p>"Yes," replied Victorin, "for we must get on. Do you know that
by one<br>
 single phrase that woman has endangered my mother's life and
reason?<br>
 So, I say, get on."</p>

<p>"We have got on!" replied the old woman.</p>

<p>"Well?" cried Victorin, with a gulp.</p>

<p>"Well, you do not cry off the expenses?"</p>

<p>"On the contrary."</p>

<p>"They run up to twenty-three thousand francs already."</p>

<p>Victorin looked helplessly at the woman.</p>

<p>"Well, could we hoodwink you, you, one of the shining lights
of the<br>
 law?" said she. "For that sum we have secured a maid's
conscience and<br>
 a picture by Raphael.--It is not dear."</p>

<p>Hulot, still bewildered, sat with wide open eyes.</p>

<p>"Well, then," his visitor went on, "we have purchased the
honesty of<br>
 Mademoiselle Reine Tousard, a damsel from whom Madame Marneffe
has no<br>
 secrets--"</p>

<p>"I understand!"</p>

<p>"But if you shy, say so."</p>

<p>"I will play blindfold," he replied. "My mother has told me
that that<br>
 couple deserve the worst torments--"</p>

<p>"The rack is out of date," said the old woman.</p>

<p>"You answer for the result?"</p>

<p>"Leave it all to me," said the woman; "your vengeance is
simmering."</p>

<p>She looked at the clock; it was six.</p>

<p>"Your avenger is dressing; the fires are lighted at the
<i>Rocher de</i><br>
 <i>Cancale</i>; the horses are pawing the ground; my irons are
getting hot.<br>
 --Oh, I know your Madame Marneffe by heart!-- Everything is
ready. And<br>
 there are some boluses in the rat-trap; I will tell you
to-morrow<br>
 morning if the mouse is poisoned. I believe she will be; good
evening,<br>
 my son."</p>

<p>"Good-bye, madame."</p>

<p>"Do you know English?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Well, my son, thou shalt be King. That is to say, you shall
come into<br>
 your inheritance," said the dreadful old witch, foreseen by<br>
 Shakespeare, and who seemed to know her Shakespeare.</p>

<p>She left Hulot amazed at the door of his study.</p>

<p>"The consultation is for to-morrow!" said she, with the
gracious air<br>
 of a regular client.</p>

<p>She saw two persons coming, and wished to pass in their eyes
a<br>
 pinchbeck countess.</p>

<p>"What impudence!" thought Hulot, bowing to his pretended
client.</p>

<p>Baron Montes de Montejanos was a <i>lion</i>, but a lion not
accounted for.<br>
 Fashionable Paris, Paris of the turf and of the town, admired
the<br>
 ineffable waistcoats of this foreign gentleman, his spotless
patent-<br>
 leather boots, his incomparable sticks, his much-coveted horses,
and<br>
 the negro servants who rode the horses and who were entirely
slaves<br>
 and most consumedly thrashed.</p>

<p>His fortune was well known; he had a credit account up to
seven<br>
 hundred thousand francs in the great banking house of du Tillet;
but<br>
 he was always seen alone. When he went to "first nights," he was
in a<br>
 stall. He frequented no drawing-rooms. He had never given his
arm to a<br>
 girl on the streets. His name would not be coupled with that of
any<br>
 pretty woman of the world. To pass his time he played whist at
the<br>
 Jockey-Club. The world was reduced to calumny, or, which it
thought<br>
 funnier, to laughing at his peculiarities; he went by the name
of<br>
 Combabus.</p>

<p>Bixiou, Leon de Lora, Lousteau, Florine, Mademoiselle
Heloise<br>
 Brisetout, and Nathan, supping one evening with the
notorious<br>
 Carabine, with a large party of <i>lions</i> and
<i>lionesses</i>, had invented<br>
 this name with an excessively burlesque explanation. Massol, as
being<br>
 on the Council of State, and Claude Vignon, erewhile Professor
of<br>
 Greek, had related to the ignorant damsels the famous
anecdote,<br>
 preserved in Rollin's <i>Ancient History</i>, concerning
Combabus, that<br>
 voluntary Abelard who was placed in charge of the wife of a King
of<br>
 Assyria, Persia, Bactria, Mesopotamia, and other
geographical<br>
 divisions peculiar to old Professor du Bocage, who continued the
work<br>
 of d'Anville, the creator of the East of antiquity. This
nickname,<br>
 which gave Carabine's guests laughter for a quarter of an hour,
gave<br>
 rise to a series of over-free jests, to which the Academy could
not<br>
 award the Montyon prize; but among which the name was taken up,
to<br>
 rest thenceforth on the curly mane of the handsome Baron, called
by<br>
 Josepha the splendid Brazilian--as one might say a splendid<br>
 <i>Catoxantha</i>.</p>

<p>Carabine, the loveliest of her tribe, whose delicate beauty
and<br>
 amusing wit had snatched the sceptre of the Thirteenth
Arrondissement<br>
 from the hands of Mademoiselle Turquet, better known by the name
of<br>
 Malaga--Mademoiselle Seraphine Sinet (this was her real name)
was to<br>
 du Tillet the banker what Josepha Mirah was to the Duc
d'Herouville.</p>

<p>Now, on the morning of the very day when Madame de
Saint-Esteve had<br>
 prophesied success to Victorin, Carabine had said to du Tillet
at<br>
 about seven o'clock:</p>

<p>"If you want to be very nice, you will give me a dinner at the
<i>Rocher</i><br>
 <i>de Cancale</i> and bring Combabus. We want to know, once for
all, whether<br>
 he has a mistress.--I bet that he has, and I should like to
win."</p>

<p>"He is still at the Hotel des Princes; I will call," replied
du<br>
 Tillet. "We will have some fun. Ask all the youngsters--the
youngster<br>
 Bixiou, the youngster Lora, in short, all the clan."</p>

<p>At half-past seven that evening, in the handsomest room of
the<br>
 restaurant where all Europe has dined, a splendid silver service
was<br>
 spread, made on purpose for entertainments where vanity pays the
bill<br>
 in bank-notes. A flood of light fell in ripples on the chased
rims;<br>
 waiters, whom a provincial might have taken for diplomatists but
for<br>
 their age, stood solemnly, as knowing themselves to be
overpaid.</p>

<p>Five guests had arrived, and were waiting for nine more. These
were<br>
 first and foremost Bixiou, still flourishing in 1843, the salt
of<br>
 every intellectual dish, always supplied with fresh wit--a
phenomenon<br>
 as rare in Paris as virtue is; Leon de Lora, the greatest
living<br>
 painter of landscape and the sea who has this great advantage
over all<br>
 his rivals, that he has never fallen below his first successes.
The<br>
 courtesans could never dispense with these two kings of ready
wit. No<br>
 supper, no dinner, was possible without them.</p>

<p>Seraphine Sinet, <i>dite</i> Carabine, as the mistress <i>en
titre</i> of the<br>
 Amphitryon, was one of the first to arrive; and the brilliant
lighting<br>
 showed off her shoulders, unrivaled in Paris, her throat, as
round as<br>
 if turned in a lathe, without a crease, her saucy face, and
dress of<br>
 satin brocade in two shades of blue, trimmed with Honiton lace
enough<br>
 to have fed a whole village for a month.</p>

<p>Pretty Jenny Cadine, not acting that evening, came in a dress
of<br>
 incredible splendor; her portrait is too well known to need
any<br>
 description. A party is always a Longchamps of evening dress for
these<br>
 ladies, each anxious to win the prize for her millionaire by
thus<br>
 announcing to her rivals:</p>

<p>"This is the price I am worth!"</p>

<p>A third woman, evidently at the initial stage of her career,
gazed,<br>
 almost shamefaced, at the luxury of her two established and
wealthy<br>
 companions. Simply dressed in white cashmere trimmed with blue,
her<br>
 head had been dressed with real flowers by a coiffeur of the
old-<br>
 fashioned school, whose awkward hands had unconsciously given
the<br>
 charm of ineptitude to her fair hair. Still unaccustomed to
any<br>
 finery, she showed the timidity--to use a hackneyed phrase--<br>
 inseparable from a first appearance. She had come from Valognes
to<br>
 find in Paris some use for her distracting youthfulness, her
innocence<br>
 that might have stirred the senses of a dying man, and her
beauty,<br>
 worthy to hold its own with any that Normandy has ever supplied
to the<br>
 theatres of the capital. The lines of that unblemished face were
the<br>
 ideal of angelic purity. Her milk-white skin reflected the light
like<br>
 a mirror. The delicate pink in her cheeks might have been laid
on with<br>
 a brush. She was called Cydalise, and, as will be seen, she was
an<br>
 important pawn in the game played by Ma'ame Nourrisson to
defeat<br>
 Madame Marneffe.</p>

<p>"Your arm is not a match for your name, my child," said Jenny
Cadine,<br>
 to whom Carabine had introduced this masterpiece of sixteen,
having<br>
 brought her with her.</p>

<p>And, in fact, Cydalise displayed to public admiration a fine
pair of<br>
 arms, smooth and satiny, but red with healthy young blood.</p>

<p>"What do you want for her?" said Jenny Cadine, in an undertone
to<br>
 Carabine.</p>

<p>"A fortune."</p>

<p>"What are you going to do with her?"</p>

<p>"Well--Madame Combabus!"</p>

<p>"And what are you to get for such a job?"</p>

<p>"Guess."</p>

<p>"A service of plate?"</p>

<p>"I have three."</p>

<p>"Diamonds?"</p>

<p>"I am selling them."</p>

<p>"A green monkey?"</p>

<p>"No. A picture by Raphael."</p>

<p>"What maggot is that in your brain?"</p>

<p>"Josepha makes me sick with her pictures," said Carabine. "I
want some<br>
 better than hers."</p>

<p>Du Tillet came with the Brazilian, the hero of the feast; the
Duc<br>
 d'Herouville followed with Josepha. The singer wore a plain
velvet<br>
 gown, but she had on a necklace worth a hundred and twenty
thousand<br>
 francs, pearls hardly distinguishable from her skin like
white<br>
 camellia petals. She had stuck one scarlet camellia in her black
hair<br>
 --a patch--the effect was dazzling, and she had amused herself
by<br>
 putting eleven rows of pearls on each arm. As she shook hands
with<br>
 Jenny Cadine, the actress said, "Lend me your mittens!"</p>

<p>Josepha unclasped them one by one and handed them to her
friend on a<br>
 plate.</p>

<p>"There's style!" said Carabine. "Quite the Duchess! You have
robbed<br>
 the ocean to dress the nymph, Monsieur le Duc," she added
turning to<br>
 the little Duc d'Herouville.</p>

<p>The actress took two of the bracelets; she clasped the other
twenty on<br>
 the singer's beautiful arms, which she kissed.</p>

<p>Lousteau, the literary cadger, la Palferine and Malaga,
Massol,<br>
 Vauvinet, and Theodore Gaillard, a proprietor of one of the
most<br>
 important political newspapers, completed the party. The Duc<br>
 d'Herouville, polite to everybody, as a fine gentleman knows how
to<br>
 be, greeted the Comte de la Palferine with the particular nod
which,<br>
 while it does not imply either esteem or intimacy, conveys to
all the<br>
 world, "We are of the same race, the same blood--equals!"--And
this<br>
 greeting, the shibboleth of the aristocracy, was invented to be
the<br>
 despair of the upper citizen class.</p>

<p><br>
 Carabine placed Combabus on her left, and the Duc d'Herouville
on her<br>
 right. Cydalise was next to the Brazilian, and beyond her was
Bixiou.<br>
 Malaga sat by the Duke.</p>

<p>Oysters appeared at seven o'clock; at eight they were drinking
iced<br>
 punch. Every one is familiar with the bill of fare of such a
banquet.<br>
 By nine o'clock they were talking as people talk after
forty-two<br>
 bottles of various wines, drunk by fourteen persons. Dessert was
on<br>
 the table, the odious dessert of the month of April. Of all the
party,<br>
 the only one affected by the heady atmosphere was Cydalise, who
was<br>
 humming a tune. None of the party, with the exception of the
poor<br>
 country girl, had lost their reason; the drinkers and the women
were<br>
 the experienced <i>elite</i> of the society that sups. Their
wits were<br>
 bright, their eyes glistened, but with no loss of intelligence,
though<br>
 the talk drifted into satire, anecdote, and gossip.
Conversation,<br>
 hitherto confined to the inevitable circle of racing,
horses,<br>
 hammerings on the Bourse, the different occupations of the
<i>lions</i><br>
 themselves, and the scandals of the town, showed a tendency to
break<br>
 up into intimate <i>tete-a-tete,</i> the dialogues of two
hearts.</p>

<p>And at this stage, at a signal from Carabine to Leon de Lora,
Bixiou,<br>
 la Palferine, and du Tillet, love came under discussion.</p>

<p>"A doctor in good society never talks of medicine, true nobles
never<br>
 speak of their ancestors, men of genius do not discuss their
works,"<br>
 said Josepha; "why should we talk business? If I got the opera
put off<br>
 in order to dine here, it was assuredly not to work.--So let us
change<br>
 the subject, dear children."</p>

<p>"But we are speaking of real love, my beauty," said Malaga,
"of the<br>
 love that makes a man fling all to the dogs--father, mother,
wife,<br>
 children--and retire to Clichy."</p>

<p>"Talk away, then, 'don't know yer,' " said the singer.</p>

<p>The slang words, borrowed from the Street Arab, and spoken by
these<br>
 women, may be a poem on their lips, helped by the expression of
the<br>
 eyes and face.</p>

<p>"What, do not I love you, Josepha?" said the Duke in a low
voice.</p>

<p>"You, perhaps, may love me truly," said she in his ear, and
she<br>
 smiled. "But I do not love you in the way they describe, with
such<br>
 love as makes the world dark in the absence of the man beloved.
You<br>
 are delightful to me, useful--but not indispensable; and if you
were<br>
 to throw me over to-morrow, I could have three dukes for
one."</p>

<p>"Is true love to be found in Paris?" asked Leon de Lora. "Men
have not<br>
 even time to make a fortune; how can they give themselves over
to true<br>
 love, which swamps a man as water melts sugar? A man must be<br>
 enormously rich to indulge in it, for love annihilates
him--for<br>
 instance, like our Brazilian friend over there. As I said long
ago,<br>
 'Extremes defeat--themselves.' A true lover is like an eunuch;
women<br>
 have ceased to exist for him. He is mystical; he is like the
true<br>
 Christian, an anchorite of the desert!--See our noble
Brazilian."</p>

<p>Every one at table looked at Henri Montes de Montejanos, who
was shy<br>
 at finding every eye centred on him.</p>

<p>"He has been feeding there for an hour without discovering,
any more<br>
 than an ox at pasture, that he is sitting next to--I will not
say, in<br>
 such company, the loveliest--but the freshest woman in all
Paris."</p>

<p>"Everything is fresh here, even the fish; it is what the house
is<br>
 famous for," said Carabine.</p>

<p>Baron Montes looked good-naturedly at the painter, and
said:</p>

<p>"Very good! I drink to your very good health," and bowing to
Leon de<br>
 Lora, he lifted his glass of port wine and drank it with much
dignity.</p>

<p>"Are you then truly in love?" asked Malaga of her neighbor,
thus<br>
 interpreting his toast.</p>

<p>The Brazilian refilled his glass, bowed to Carabine, and drank
again.</p>

<p>"To the lady's health then!" said the courtesan, in such a
droll tone<br>
 that Lora, du Tillet, and Bixiou burst out laughing.</p>

<p>The Brazilian sat like a bronze statue. This impassibility
provoked<br>
 Carabine. She knew perfectly well that Montes was devoted to
Madame<br>
 Marneffe, but she had not expected this dogged fidelity,
this<br>
 obstinate silence of conviction.</p>

<p>A woman is as often gauged by the attitude of her lover as a
man is<br>
 judged from the tone of his mistress. The Baron was proud of
his<br>
 attachment to Valerie, and of hers to him; his smile had, to
these<br>
 experienced connoisseurs, a touch of irony; he was really grand
to<br>
 look upon; wine had not flushed him; and his eyes, with their
peculiar<br>
 lustre as of tarnished gold, kept the secrets of his soul.
Even<br>
 Carabine said to herself:</p>

<p>"What a woman she must be! How she has sealed up that
heart!"</p>

<p>"He is a rock!" said Bixiou in an undertone, imagining that
the whole<br>
 thing was a practical joke, and never suspecting the importance
to<br>
 Carabine of reducing this fortress.</p>

<p>While this conversation, apparently so frivolous, was going on
at<br>
 Carabine's right, the discussion of love was continued on her
left<br>
 between the Duc d'Herouville, Lousteau, Josepha, Jenny Cadine,
and<br>
 Massol. They were wondering whether such rare phenomena were
the<br>
 result of passion, obstinacy, or affection. Josepha, bored to
death by<br>
 it all, tried to change the subject.</p>

<p>"You are talking of what you know nothing about. Is there a
man among<br>
 you who ever loved a woman--a woman beneath him--enough to
squander<br>
 his fortune and his children's, to sacrifice his future and
blight his<br>
 past, to risk going to the hulks for robbing the Government, to
kill<br>
 an uncle and a brother, to let his eye be so effectually blinded
that<br>
 he did not even perceive that it was done to hinder his seeing
the<br>
 abyss into which, as a crowning jest, he was being driven? Du
Tillet<br>
 has a cash-box under his left breast; Leon de Lora has his wit;
Bixiou<br>
 would laugh at himself for a fool if he loved any one but
himself;<br>
 Massol has a minister's portfolio in the place of a heart;
Lousteau<br>
 can have nothing but viscera, since he could endure to be thrown
over<br>
 by Madame de Baudraye; Monsieur le Duc is too rich to prove his
love<br>
 by his ruin; Vauvinet is not in it--I do not regard a
bill-broker as<br>
 one of the human race; and you have never loved, nor I, nor
Jenny<br>
 Cadine, nor Malaga. For my part, I never but once even saw
the<br>
 phenomenon I have described. It was," and she turned to Jenny
Cadine,<br>
 "that poor Baron Hulot, whom I am going to advertise for like a
lost<br>
 dog, for I want to find him."</p>

<p>"Oh, ho!" said Carabine to herself, and looking keenly at
Josepha,<br>
 "then Madame Nourrisson has two pictures by Raphael, since
Josepha is<br>
 playing my hand!"</p>

<p>"Poor fellow," said Vauvinet, "he was a great man!
Magnificent! And<br>
 what a figure, what a style, the air of Francis I.! What a
volcano!<br>
 and how full of ingenious ways of getting money! He must be
looking<br>
 for it now, wherever he is, and I make no doubt he extracts it
even<br>
 from the walls built of bones that you may see in the suburbs of
Paris<br>
 near the city gates--"</p>

<p>"And all that," said Bixiou, "for that little Madame Marneffe!
There<br>
 is a precious hussy for you!"</p>

<p>"She is just going to marry my friend Crevel," said du
Tillet.</p>

<p>"And she is madly in love with my friend Steinbock," Leon de
Lora put<br>
 in.</p>

<p>These three phrases were like so many pistol-shots fired
point-blank<br>
 at Montes. He turned white, and the shock was so painful that he
rose<br>
 with difficulty.</p>

<p>"You are a set of blackguards!" cried he. "You have no right
to speak<br>
 the name of an honest woman in the same breath with those
fallen<br>
 creatures--above all, not to make it a mark for your
slander!"</p>

<p>He was interrupted by unanimous bravos and applause. Bixiou,
Leon de<br>
 Lora, Vauvinet, du Tillet, and Massol set the example, and there
was a<br>
 chorus.</p>

<p>"Hurrah for the Emperor!" said Bixiou.</p>

<p>"Crown him! crown him!" cried Vauvinet.</p>

<p>"Three groans for such a good dog! Hurrah for Brazil!" cried
Lousteau.</p>

<p>"So, my copper-colored Baron, it is our Valerie that you love;
and you<br>
 are not disgusted?" said Leon de Lora.</p>

<p>"His remark is not parliamentary, but it is grand!" observed
Massol.</p>

<p>"But, my most delightful customer," said du Tillet, "you
were<br>
 recommended to me; I am your banker; your innocence reflects on
my<br>
 credit."</p>

<p>"Yes, tell me, you are a reasonable creature----" said the
Brazilian<br>
 to the banker.</p>

<p>"Thanks on behalf of the company," said Bixiou with a bow.</p>

<p>"Tell me the real facts," Montes went on, heedless of
Bixiou's<br>
 interjection.</p>

<p>"Well, then," replied du Tillet, "I have the honor to tell you
that I<br>
 am asked to the Crevel wedding."</p>

<p>"Ah, ha! Combabus holds a brief for Madame Marneffe!" said
Josepha,<br>
 rising solemnly.</p>

<p>She went round to Montes with a tragic look, patted him kindly
on the<br>
 head, looked at him for a moment with comical admiration, and
nodded<br>
 sagely.</p>

<p>"Hulot was the first instance of love through fire and water,"
said<br>
 she; "this is the second. But it ought not to count, as it comes
from<br>
 the Tropics."</p>

<p>Montes had dropped into his chair again, when Josepha gently
touched<br>
 his forehead, and looked at du Tillet as he said:</p>

<p>"If I am the victim of a Paris jest, if you only wanted to get
at my<br>
 secret----" and he sent a flashing look round the table,
embracing all<br>
 the guests in a flaming glance that blazed with the sun of
Brazil,--"I<br>
 beg of you as a favor to tell me so," he went on, in a tone of
almost<br>
 childlike entreaty; "but do not vilify the woman I love."</p>

<p>"Nay, indeed," said Carabine in a low voice; "but if, on the
contrary,<br>
 you are shamefully betrayed, cheated, tricked by Valerie, if I
should<br>
 give you the proof in an hour, in my own house, what then?"</p>

<p>"I cannot tell you before all these Iagos," said the
Brazilian.</p>

<p>Carabine understood him to say <i>magots</i> (baboons).</p>

<p>"Well, well, say no more!" she replied, smiling. "Do not make
yourself<br>
 a laughing-stock for all the wittiest men in Paris; come to my
house,<br>
 we will talk it over."</p>

<p>Montes was crushed. "Proofs," he stammered, "consider--"</p>

<p>"Only too many," replied Carabine; "and if the mere suspicion
hits you<br>
 so hard, I fear for your reason."</p>

<p>"Is this creature obstinate, I ask you? He is worse than the
late<br>
 lamented King of Holland!--I say, Lousteau, Bixiou, Massol, all
the<br>
 crew of you, are you not invited to breakfast with Madame
Marneffe the<br>
 day after to-morrow?" said Leon de Lora.</p>

<p>"<i>Ya</i>," said du Tillet; "I have the honor of assuring
you, Baron, that<br>
 if you had by any chance thought of marrying Madame Marneffe,
you are<br>
 thrown out like a bill in Parliament, beaten by a blackball
called<br>
 Crevel. My friend, my old comrade Crevel, has eighty thousand
francs a<br>
 year; and you, I suppose, did not show such a good hand, for if
you<br>
 had, you, I imagine, would have been preferred."</p>

<p>Montes listened with a half-absent, half-smiling expression,
which<br>
 struck them all with terror.</p>

<p>At this moment the head-waiter came to whisper to Carabine
that a<br>
 lady, a relation of hers, was in the drawing-room and wished to
speak<br>
 to her.</p>

<p>Carabine rose and went out to find Madame Nourrisson, decently
veiled<br>
 with black lace.</p>

<p>"Well, child, am I to go to your house? Has he taken the
hook?"</p>

<p>"Yes, mother; and the pistol is so fully loaded, that my only
fear is<br>
 that it will burst," said Carabine.</p>

<p>About an hour later, Montes, Cydalise, and Carabine, returning
from<br>
 the <i>Rocher de Cancale</i>, entered Carabine's little
sitting-room in the<br>
 Rue Saint-Georges. Madame Nourrisson was sitting in an armchair
by the<br>
 fire.</p>

<p>"Here is my worthy old aunt," said Carabine.</p>

<p>"Yes, child, I came in person to fetch my little allowance.
You would<br>
 have forgotten me, though you are kind-hearted, and I have some
bills<br>
 to pay to-morrow. Buying and selling clothes, I am always short
of<br>
 cash. Who is this at your heels? The gentleman looks very much
put out<br>
 about something."</p>

<p><br>
 The dreadful Madame Nourrisson, at this moment so completely
disguised<br>
 as to look like a respectable old body, rose to embrace
Carabine, one<br>
 of the hundred and odd courtesans she had launched on their
horrible<br>
 career of vice.</p>

<p>"He is an Othello who is not to be taken in, whom I have the
honor of<br>
 introducing to you--Monsieur le Baron Montes de Montejanos."</p>

<p>"Oh! I have heard him talked about, and know his name.--You
are<br>
 nicknamed Combabus, because you love but one woman, and in
Paris, that<br>
 is the same as loving no one at all. And is it by chance the
object of<br>
 your affections who is fretting you? Madame Marneffe, Crevel's
woman?<br>
 I tell you what, my dear sir, you may bless your stars instead
of<br>
 cursing them. She is a good-for-nothing baggage, is that little
woman.<br>
 I know her tricks!"</p>

<p>"Get along," said Carabine, into whose hand Madame Nourrisson
had<br>
 slipped a note while embracing her, "you do not know your
Brazilians.<br>
 They are wrong-headed creatures that insist on being impaled
through<br>
 the heart. The more jealous they are, the more jealous they want
to<br>
 be. Monsieur talks of dealing death all round, but he will kill
nobody<br>
 because he is in love.--However, I have brought him here to give
him<br>
 the proofs of his discomfiture, which I have got from that
little<br>
 Steinbock."</p>

<p>Montes was drunk; he listened as if the women were talking
about<br>
 somebody else.</p>

<p>Carabine went to take off her velvet wrap, and read a
facsimile of a<br>
 note, as follows:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"DEAR PUSS.--He dines with Popinot this evening, and will come
to<br>
 fetch me from the Opera at eleven. I shall go out at about
half-<br>
 past five and count on finding you at our paradise. Order
dinner<br>
 to be sent in from the <i>Maison d'or</i>. Dress, so as to be
able to<br>
 take me to the Opera. We shall have four hours to ourselves.<br>
 Return this note to me; not that your Valerie doubts you--I
would<br>
 give you my life, my fortune, and my honor, but I am afraid of
the<br>
 tricks of chance."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>"Here, Baron, this is the note sent to Count Steinbock this
morning;<br>
 read the address. The original document is burnt."</p>

<p><br>
 Montes turned the note over and over, recognized the writing,
and was<br>
 struck by a rational idea, which is sufficient evidence of
the<br>
 disorder of his brain.</p>

<p>"And, pray," said he, looking at Carabine, "what object have
you in<br>
 torturing my heart, for you must have paid very dear for the
privilege<br>
 of having the note in your possession long enough to get it<br>
 lithographed?"</p>

<p>"Foolish man!" said Carabine, at a nod from Madame Nourrisson,
"don't<br>
 you see that poor child Cydalise--a girl of sixteen, who has
been<br>
 pining for you these three months, till she has lost her
appetite for<br>
 food or drink, and who is heart-broken because you have never
even<br>
 glanced at her?"</p>

<p>Cydalise put her handkerchief to her eyes with an appearance
of<br>
 emotion--"She is furious," Carabine went on, "though she looks
as if<br>
 butter would not melt in her mouth, furious to see the man she
adores<br>
 duped by a villainous hussy; she would kill Valerie--"</p>

<p>"Oh, as for that," said the Brazilian, "that is my
business!"</p>

<p>"What, killing?" said old Nourrisson. "No, my son, we don't do
that<br>
 here nowadays."</p>

<p>"Oh!" said Montes, "I am not a native of this country. I live
in a<br>
 parish where I can laugh at your laws; and if you give me
proof--"</p>

<p>"Well, that note. Is that nothing?"</p>

<p>"No," said the Brazilian. "I do not believe in the writing. I
must see<br>
 for myself."</p>

<p>"See!" cried Carabine, taking the hint at once from a gesture
of her<br>
 supposed aunt. "You shall see, my dear Tiger, all you wish to
see--on<br>
 one condition."</p>

<p>"And that is?"</p>

<p>"Look at Cydalise."</p>

<p>At a wink from Madame Nourrisson, Cydalise cast a tender look
at the<br>
 Baron.</p>

<p>"Will you be good to her? Will you make her a home?" asked
Carabine.<br>
 "A girl of such beauty is well worth a house and a carriage! It
would<br>
 be a monstrous shame to leave her to walk the streets. And
besides--<br>
 she is in debt.--How much do you owe?" asked Carabine,
nipping<br>
 Cydalise's arm.</p>

<p>"She is worth all she can get," said the old woman. "The point
is that<br>
 she can find a buyer."</p>

<p>"Listen!" cried Montes, fully aware at last of this
masterpiece of<br>
 womankind "you will show me Valerie--"</p>

<p>"And Count Steinbock.--Certainly!" said Madame Nourrisson.</p>

<p>For the past ten minutes the old woman had been watching
the<br>
 Brazilian; she saw that he was an instrument tuned up to the
murderous<br>
 pitch she needed; and, above all, so effectually blinded, that
he<br>
 would never heed who had led him on to it, and she spoke:--</p>

<p>"Cydalise, my Brazilian jewel, is my niece, so her concerns
are partly<br>
 mine. All this catastrophe will be the work of a few minutes,
for a<br>
 friend of mine lets the furnished room to Count Steinbock
where<br>
 Valerie is at this moment taking coffee--a queer sort of coffee,
but<br>
 she calls it her coffee. So let us understand each other,
Brazil!--I<br>
 like Brazil, it is a hot country.--What is to become of my
niece?"</p>

<p>"You old ostrich," said Montes, the plumes in the woman's
bonnet<br>
 catching his eye, "you interrupted me.--If you show me--if I
see<br>
 Valerie and that artist together--"</p>

<p>"As you would wish to be--" said Carabine; "that is
understood."</p>

<p>"Then I will take this girl and carry her away--"</p>

<p>"Where?" asked Carabine.</p>

<p>"To Brazil," replied the Baron. "I will make her my wife. My
uncle<br>
 left me ten leagues square of entailed estate; that is how I
still<br>
 have that house and home. I have a hundred negroes--nothing
but<br>
 negroes and negresses and negro brats, all bought by my
uncle--"</p>

<p>"Nephew to a nigger-driver," said Carabine, with a grimace.
"That<br>
 needs some consideration.--Cydalise, child, are you fond of
the<br>
 blacks?"</p>

<p>"Pooh! Carabine, no nonsense," said the old woman. "The deuce
is in<br>
 it! Monsieur and I are doing business."</p>

<p>"If I take up another Frenchwoman, I mean to have her to
myself," the<br>
 Brazilian went on. "I warn you, mademoiselle, I am king there,
and not<br>
 a constitutional king. I am Czar; my subjects are mine by
purchase,<br>
 and no one can escape from my kingdom, which is a hundred
leagues from<br>
 any human settlement, hemmed in by savages on the interior,
and<br>
 divided from the sea by a wilderness as wide as France."</p>

<p>"I should prefer a garret here."</p>

<p>"So thought I," said Montes, "since I sold all my land and
possessions<br>
 at Rio to come back to Madame Marneffe."</p>

<p>"A man does not make such a voyage for nothing," remarked
Madame<br>
 Nourrisson. "You have a right to look for love for your own
sake,<br>
 particularly being so good-looking.--Oh, he is very handsome!"
said<br>
 she to Carabine.</p>

<p>"Very handsome, handsomer than the <i>Postillon de
Longjumeau,</i>" replied<br>
 the courtesan.</p>

<p>Cydalise took the Brazilian's hand, but he released it as
politely as<br>
 he could.</p>

<p>"I came back for Madame Marneffe," the man went on where he
had left<br>
 off, "but you do not know why I was three years thinking about
it."</p>

<p>"No, savage!" said Carabine.</p>

<p>"Well, she had so repeatedly told me that she longed to live
with me<br>
 alone in a desert--"</p>

<p>"Oh, ho! he is not a savage after all," cried Carabine, with a
shout<br>
 of laughter. "He is of the highly-civilized tribe of Flats!"</p>

<p>"She had told me this so often," Montes went on, regardless of
the<br>
 courtesan's mockery, "that I had a lovely house fitted up in the
heart<br>
 of that vast estate. I came back to France to fetch Valerie, and
the<br>
 first evening I saw her--"</p>

<p>"Saw her is very proper!" said Carabine. "I will remember
it."</p>

<p>"She told me to wait till that wretched Marneffe was dead; and
I<br>
 agreed, and forgave her for having admitted the attentions of
Hulot.<br>
 Whether the devil had her in hand I don't know, but from that
instant<br>
 that woman has humored my every whim, complied with all my
demands--<br>
 never for one moment has she given me cause to suspect
her!--"</p>

<p>"That is supremely clever!" said Carabine to Madame
Nourrisson, who<br>
 nodded in sign of assent.</p>

<p>"My faith in that woman," said Montes, and he shed a tear,
"was a<br>
 match for my love. Just now, I was ready to fight everybody
at<br>
 table--"</p>

<p>"So I saw," said Carabine.</p>

<p>"And if I am cheated, if she is going to be married, if she is
at this<br>
 moment in Steinbock's arms, she deserves a thousand deaths! I
will<br>
 kill her as I would smash a fly--"</p>

<p>"And how about the gendarmes, my son?" said Madame Nourrisson,
with a<br>
 smile that made your flesh creep.</p>

<p>"And the police agents, and the judges, and the assizes, and
all the<br>
 set-out?" added Carabine.</p>

<p>"You are bragging, my dear fellow," said the old woman, who
wanted to<br>
 know all the Brazilian's schemes of vengeance.</p>

<p>"I will kill her," he calmly repeated. "You called me a
savage.--Do<br>
 you imagine that I am fool enough to go, like a Frenchman, and
buy<br>
 poison at the chemist's shop?--During the time while we were
driving<br>
 her, I thought out my means of revenge, if you should prove to
be<br>
 right as concerns Valerie. One of my negroes has the most deadly
of<br>
 animal poisons, and incurable anywhere but in Brazil. I will<br>
 administer it to Cydalise, who will give it to me; then by the
time<br>
 when death is a certainty to Crevel and his wife, I shall be
beyond<br>
 the Azores with your cousin, who will be cured, and I will marry
her.<br>
 We have our own little tricks, we savages!--Cydalise," said
he,<br>
 looking at the country girl, "is the animal I need.--How much
does she<br>
 owe?"</p>

<p>"A hundred thousand francs," said Cydalise.</p>

<p>"She says little--but to the purpose," said Carabine, in a low
tone to<br>
 Madame Nourrisson.</p>

<p>"I am going mad!" cried the Brazilian, in a husky voice,
dropping on<br>
 to a sofa. "I shall die of this! But I must see, for it is
impossible!<br>
 --A lithographed note! What is to assure me that it is not a
forgery?<br>
 --Baron Hulot was in love with Valerie?" said he, recalling
Josepha's<br>
 harangue. "Nay; the proof that he did not love is that she is
still<br>
 alive--I will not leave her living for anybody else, if she is
not<br>
 wholly mine."</p>

<p>Montes was terrible to behold. He bellowed, he stormed; he
broke<br>
 everything he touched; rosewood was as brittle as glass.</p>

<p>"How he destroys things!" said Carabine, looking at the old
woman. "My<br>
 good boy," said she, giving the Brazilian a little slap, "Roland
the<br>
 Furious is very fine in a poem; but in a drawing-room he is
prosaic<br>
 and expensive."</p>

<p>"My son," said old Nourrisson, rising to stand in front of
the<br>
 crestfallen Baron, "I am of your way of thinking. When you love
in<br>
 that way, and are joined 'till death does you part,' life must
answer<br>
 for love. The one who first goes, carries everything away; it is
a<br>
 general wreck. You command my esteem, my admiration, my
consent,<br>
 especially for your inoculation, which will make me a Friend of
the<br>
 Negro.--But you love her! You will hark back?"</p>

<p>"I?--If she is so infamous, I--"</p>

<p>"Well, come now, you are talking too much, it strikes me. A
man who<br>
 means to be avenged, and who says he has the ways and means of
a<br>
 savage, doesn't do that.--If you want to see your 'object' in
her<br>
 paradise, you must take Cydalise and walk straight in with her
on your<br>
 arm, as if the servant had made a mistake. But no scandal! If
you mean<br>
 to be revenged, you must eat the leek, seem to be in despair,
and<br>
 allow her to bully you.--Do you see?" said Madame Nourrisson,
finding<br>
 the Brazilian quite amazed by so subtle a scheme.</p>

<p>"All right, old ostrich," he replied. "Come along: I
understand."</p>

<p>"Good-bye, little one!" said the old woman to Carabine.</p>

<p>She signed to Cydalise to go on with Montes, and remained a
minute<br>
 with Carabine.</p>

<p>"Now, child, I have but one fear, and that is that he will
strangle<br>
 her! I should be in a very tight place; we must do everything
gently.<br>
 I believe you have won your picture by Raphael; but they tell me
it is<br>
 only a Mignard. Never mind, it is much prettier; all the
Raphaels are<br>
 gone black, I am told, whereas this one is as bright as a
Girodet."</p>

<p>"All I want is to crow over Josepha; and it is all the same to
me<br>
 whether I have a Mignard or a Raphael!--That thief had on such
pearls<br>
 this evening!--you would sell your soul for them."</p>

<p>Cydalise, Montes, and Madame Nourrisson got into a hackney
coach that<br>
 was waiting at the door. Madame Nourrisson whispered to the
driver the<br>
 address of a house in the same block as the Italian Opera House,
which<br>
 they could have reached in five or six minutes from the Rue
Saint-<br>
 Georges; but Madame Nourrisson desired the man to drive along
the Rue<br>
 le Peletier, and to go very slowly, so as to be able to examine
the<br>
 carriages in waiting.</p>

<p>"Brazilian," said the old woman, "look out for your angel's
carriage<br>
 and servants."</p>

<p>The Baron pointed out Valerie's carriage as they passed
it.</p>

<p>"She has told them to come for her at ten o'clock, and she is
gone in<br>
 a cab to the house where she visits Count Steinbock. She has
dined<br>
 there, and will come to the Opera in half an hour.--It is
well<br>
 contrived!" said Madame Nourrisson. "Thus you see how she has
kept you<br>
 so long in the dark."</p>

<p>The Brazilian made no reply. He had become the tiger, and
had<br>
 recovered the imperturbable cool ferocity that had been so
striking at<br>
 dinner. He was as calm as a bankrupt the day after he has
stopped<br>
 payment.</p>

<p>At the door of the house stood a hackney coach with two
horses, of the<br>
 kind known as a <i>Compagnie Generale</i>, from the Company that
runs them.</p>

<p>"Stay here in the box," said the old woman to Montes. "This is
not an<br>
 open house like a tavern. I will send for you."</p>

<p>The paradise of Madame Marneffe and Wenceslas was not at all
like that<br>
 of Crevel--who, finding it useless now, had just sold his to the
Comte<br>
 Maxime de Trailles. This paradise, the paradise of all
comers,<br>
 consisted of a room on the fourth floor opening to the landing,
in a<br>
 house close to the Italian Opera. On each floor of this house
there<br>
 was a room which had originally served as the kitchen to the<br>
 apartments on that floor. But the house having become a sort of
inn,<br>
 let out for clandestine love affairs at an exorbitant price,
the<br>
 owner, the real Madame Nourrisson, an old-clothes buyer in the
Rue<br>
 Nueve Saint-Marc, had wisely appreciated the great value of
these<br>
 kitchens, and had turned them into a sort of dining-rooms. Each
of<br>
 these rooms, built between thick party-walls and with windows to
the<br>
 street, was entirely shut in by very thick double doors on
the<br>
 landing. Thus the most important secrets could be discussed over
a<br>
 dinner, with no risk of being overheard. For greater security,
the<br>
 windows had shutters inside and out. These rooms, in consequence
of<br>
 this peculiarity, were let for twelve hundred francs a month.
The<br>
 whole house, full of such paradises and mysteries was rented by
Madame<br>
 Nourrisson the First for twenty-eight thousand francs of clear
profit,<br>
 after paying her housekeeper, Madame Nourrisson the Second, for
she<br>
 did not manage it herself.</p>

<p><br>
 The paradise let to Count Steinbock had been hung with chintz;
the<br>
 cold, hard floor, of common tiles reddened with encaustic, was
not<br>
 felt through a soft thick carpet. The furniture consisted of
two<br>
 pretty chairs and a bed in an alcove, just now half hidden by a
table<br>
 loaded with the remains of an elegant dinner, while two bottles
with<br>
 long necks and an empty champagne-bottle in ice strewed the
field of<br>
 bacchus cultivated by Venus.</p>

<p>There were also--the property, no doubt, of Valerie--a low
easy-chair<br>
 and a man's smoking-chair, and a pretty toilet chest of drawers
in<br>
 rosewood, the mirror handsomely framed <i>a la</i> Pompadour. A
lamp<br>
 hanging from the ceiling gave a subdued light, increased by
wax<br>
 candles on the table and on the chimney-shelf.</p>

<p>This sketch will suffice to give an idea, <i>urbi et orbi</i>,
of<br>
 clandestine passion in the squalid style stamped on it in Paris
in<br>
 1840. How far, alas! from the adulterous love, symbolized by
Vulcan's<br>
 nets, three thousand years ago.</p>

<p>When Montes and Cydalise came upstairs, Valerie, standing
before the<br>
 fire, where a log was blazing, was allowing Wenceslas to lace
her<br>
 stays.</p>

<p>This is a moment when a woman who is neither too fat nor too
thin, but<br>
 like Valerie, elegant and slender, displays divine beauty. The
rosy<br>
 skin, mostly soft, invites the sleepiest eye. The lines of her
figure,<br>
 so little hidden, are so charmingly outlined by the white pleats
of<br>
 the shift and the support of the stays, that she is
irresistible--like<br>
 everything that must be parted from.</p>

<p>With a happy face smiling at the glass, a foot impatiently
marking<br>
 time, a hand put up to restore order among the tumbled curls,
and eyes<br>
 expressive of gratitude; with the glow of satisfaction which,
like a<br>
 sunset, warms the least details of the countenance--everything
makes<br>
 such a moment a mine of memories.</p>

<p>Any man who dares look back on the early errors of his life
may,<br>
 perhaps, recall some such reminiscences, and understand, though
not<br>
 excuse, the follies of Hulot and Crevel. Women are so well aware
of<br>
 their power at such a moment, that they find in it what may be
called<br>
 the aftermath of the meeting.</p>

<p>"Come, come; after two years' practice, you do not yet know
how to<br>
 lace a woman's stays! You are too much a Pole!--There, it is
ten<br>
 o'clock, my Wenceslas!" said Valerie, laughing at him.</p>

<p>At this very moment, a mischievous waiting-woman, by inserting
a<br>
 knife, pushed up the hook of the double doors that formed the
whole<br>
 security of Adam and Eve. She hastily pulled the door open--for
the<br>
 servants of these dens have little time to waste--and discovered
one<br>
 of the bewitching <i>tableaux de genre</i> which Gavarni has so
often shown<br>
 at the Salon.</p>

<p>"In here, madame," said the girl; and Cydalise went in,
followed by<br>
 Montes.</p>

<p>"But there is some one here.--Excuse me, madame," said the
country<br>
 girl, in alarm.</p>

<p>"What?--Why! it is Valerie!" cried Montes, violently slamming
the<br>
 door.</p>

<p>Madame Marneffe, too genuinely agitated to dissemble her
feelings,<br>
 dropped on to the chair by the fireplace. Two tears rose to her
eyes,<br>
 and at once dried away. She looked at Montes, saw the girl, and
burst<br>
 into a cackle of forced laughter. The dignity of the insulted
woman<br>
 redeemed the scantiness of her attire; she walked close up to
the<br>
 Brazilian, and looked at him so defiantly that her eyes
glittered like<br>
 knives.</p>

<p>"So that," said she, standing face to face with the Baron,
and<br>
 pointing to Cydalise--"that is the other side of your fidelity?
You,<br>
 who have made me promises that might convert a disbeliever in
love!<br>
 You, for whom I have done so much--have even committed
crimes!--You<br>
 are right, monsieur, I am not to compare with a child of her age
and<br>
 of such beauty!</p>

<p>"I know what you are going to say," she went on, looking at
Wenceslas,<br>
 whose undress was proof too clear to be denied. "This is my
concern.<br>
 If I could love you after such gross treachery--for you have
spied<br>
 upon me, you have paid for every step up these stairs, paid
the<br>
 mistress of the house, and the servant, perhaps even Reine--a
noble<br>
 deed!--If I had any remnant of affection for such a mean wretch,
I<br>
 could give him reasons that would renew his passion!--But I
leave you,<br>
 monsieur, to your doubts, which will become remorse.--Wenceslas,
my<br>
 gown!"</p>

<p>She took her dress and put it on, looked at herself in the
glass, and<br>
 finished dressing without heeding the Baron, as calmly as if she
had<br>
 been alone in the room.</p>

<p>"Wenceslas, are you ready?--Go first."</p>

<p>She had been watching Montes in the glass and out of the
corner of her<br>
 eye, and fancied she could see in his pallor an indication of
the<br>
 weakness which delivers a strong man over to a woman's
fascinations;<br>
 she now took his hand, going so close to him that he could not
help<br>
 inhaling the terrible perfumes which men love, and by which
they<br>
 intoxicate themselves; then, feeling his pulses beat high, she
looked<br>
 at him reproachfully.</p>

<p>"You have my full permission to go and tell your history to
Monsieur<br>
 Crevel; he will never believe you. I have a perfect right to
marry<br>
 him, and he becomes my husband the day after to-morrow.--I shall
make<br>
 him very happy.--Good-bye; try to forget me."</p>

<p>"Oh! Valerie," cried Henri Montes, clasping her in his arms,
"that is<br>
 impossible!--Come to Brazil!"</p>

<p>Valerie looked in his face, and saw him her slave.</p>

<p>"Well, if you still love me, Henri, two years hence I will be
your<br>
 wife; but your expression at this moment strikes me as very<br>
 suspicious."</p>

<p>"I swear to you that they made me drink, that false friends
threw this<br>
 girl on my hands, and that the whole thing is the outcome of
chance!"<br>
 said Montes.</p>

<p>"Then I am to forgive you?" she asked, with a smile.</p>

<p>"But you will marry, all the same?" asked the Baron, in an
agony of<br>
 jealousy.</p>

<p>"Eighty thousand francs a year!" said she, with almost
comical<br>
 enthusiasm. "And Crevel loves me so much that he will die of
it!"</p>

<p>"Ah! I understand," said Montes.</p>

<p>"Well, then, in a few days we will come to an understanding,"
said<br>
 she.</p>

<p>And she departed triumphant.</p>

<p>"I have no scruples," thought the Baron, standing transfixed
for a few<br>
 minutes. "What! That woman believes she can make use of his
passion to<br>
 be quit of that dolt, as she counted on Marneffe's decease!--I
shall<br>
 be the instrument of divine wrath."</p>

<p>Two days later those of du Tillet's guests who had demolished
Madame<br>
 Marneffe tooth and nail, were seated round her table an hour
after she<br>
 has shed her skin and changed her name for the illustrious name
of a<br>
 Paris mayor. This verbal treason is one of the commonest forms
of<br>
 Parisian levity.</p>

<p>Valerie had had the satisfaction of seeing the Brazilian in
the<br>
 church; for Crevel, now so entirely the husband, had invited him
out<br>
 of bravado. And the Baron's presence at the breakfast astonished
no<br>
 one. All these men of wit and of the world were familiar with
the<br>
 meanness of passion, the compromises of pleasure.</p>

<p>Steinbock's deep melancholy--for he was beginning to despise
the woman<br>
 whom he had adored as an angel--was considered to be in
excellent<br>
 taste. The Pole thus seemed to convey that all was at an end
between<br>
 Valerie and himself. Lisbeth came to embrace her dear Madame
Crevel,<br>
 and to excuse herself for not staying to the breakfast on the
score of<br>
 Adeline's sad state of health.</p>

<p>"Be quite easy," said she to Valerie, "they will call on you,
and you<br>
 will call on them. Simply hearing the words <i>two hundred
thousand<br>
 francs</i> has brought the Baroness to death's door. Oh, you
have them<br>
 all hard and fast by that tale!--But you must tell it to
me."</p>

<p>Within a month of her marriage, Valerie was at her tenth
quarrel with<br>
 Steinbock; he insisted on explanations as to Henri Montes,
reminding<br>
 her of the words spoken in their paradise; and, not content
with<br>
 speaking to her in terms of scorn, he watched her so closely
that she<br>
 never had a moment of liberty, so much was she fettered by
his<br>
 jealousy on one side and Crevel's devotion on the other.</p>

<p>Bereft now of Lisbeth, whose advice had always been so
valuable she<br>
 flew into such a rage as to reproach Wenceslas for the money she
had<br>
 lent him. This so effectually roused Steinbock's pride, that he
came<br>
 no more to the Crevels' house. So Valerie had gained her point,
which<br>
 was to be rid of him for a time, and enjoy some freedom. She
waited<br>
 till Crevel should make a little journey into the country to see
Comte<br>
 Popinot, with a view to arranging for her introduction to
the<br>
 Countess, and was then able to make an appointment to meet the
Baron,<br>
 whom she wanted to have at her command for a whole day to give
him<br>
 those "reasons" which were to make him love her more than
ever.</p>

<p>On the morning of that day, Reine, who estimated the magnitude
of her<br>
 crime by that of the bribe she received, tried to warn her
mistress,<br>
 in whom she naturally took more interest than in strangers.
Still, as<br>
 she had been threatened with madness, and ending her days in
the<br>
 Salpetriere in case of indiscretion, she was cautious.</p>

<p>"Madame, you are so well off now," said she. "Why take on
again with<br>
 that Brazilian?--I do not trust him at all."</p>

<p>"You are very right, Reine, and I mean to be rid of him."</p>

<p>"Oh, madame, I am glad to hear it; he frightens me, does that
big<br>
 Moor! I believe him to be capable of anything."</p>

<p>"Silly child! you have more reason to be afraid for him when
he is<br>
 with me."</p>

<p>At this moment Lisbeth came in.</p>

<p>"My dear little pet Nanny, what an age since we met!" cried
Valerie.<br>
 "I am so unhappy! Crevel bores me to death; and Wenceslas is
gone--we<br>
 quarreled."</p>

<p>"I know," said Lisbeth, "and that is what brings me here.
Victorin met<br>
 him at about five in the afternoon going into an eating-house at
five-<br>
 and-twenty sous, and he brought him home, hungry, by working on
his<br>
 feelings, to the Rue Louis-le-Grand.--Hortense, seeing Wenceslas
lean<br>
 and ill and badly dressed, held out her hand. This is how you
throw me<br>
 over--"</p>

<p>"Monsieur Henri, madame," the man-servant announced in a low
voice to<br>
 Valerie.</p>

<p>"Leave me now, Lisbeth; I will explain it all to-morrow." But,
as will<br>
 be seen, Valerie was ere long not in a state to explain anything
to<br>
 anybody.</p>

<p>Towards the end of May, Baron Hulot's pension was released
by<br>
 Victorin's regular payment to Baron Nucingen. As everybody
knows,<br>
 pensions are paid half-yearly, and only on the presentation of
a<br>
 certificate that the recipient is alive: and as Hulot's
residence was<br>
 unknown, the arrears unpaid on Vauvinet's demand remained to
his<br>
 credit in the Treasury. Vauvinet now signed his renunciation of
any<br>
 further claims, and it was still indispensable to find the
pensioner<br>
 before the arrears could be drawn.</p>

<p>Thanks to Bianchon's care, the Baroness had recovered her
health; and<br>
 to this Josepha's good heart had contributed by a letter, of
which the<br>
 orthography betrayed the collaboration of the Duc d'Herouville.
This<br>
 was what the singer wrote to the Baroness, after twenty days
of<br>
 anxious search:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"MADAME LA BARONNE,--Monsieur Hulot was living, two months
since,<br>
 in the Rue des Bernardins, with Elodie Chardin, a lace-mender,
for<br>
 whom he had left Mademoiselle Bijou; but he went away without
a<br>
 word, leaving everything behind him, and no one knows where
he<br>
 went. I am not without hope, however, and I have put a man on
this<br>
 track who believes he has already seen him in the Boulevard<br>
 Bourdon.</p>

<p>"The poor Jewess means to keep the promise she made to the<br>
 Christian. Will the angel pray for the devil? That must
sometimes<br>
 happen in heaven.--I remain, with the deepest respect, always
your<br>
 humble servant,</p>

<p><br>
 "JOSEPHA MIRAH."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The lawyer, Maitre Hulot d'Ervy, hearing no more of the
dreadful<br>
 Madame Nourrisson, seeing his father-in-law married, having
brought<br>
 back his brother-in-law to the family fold, suffering from
no<br>
 importunity on the part of his new stepmother, and seeing his
mother's<br>
 health improve daily, gave himself up to his political and
judicial<br>
 duties, swept along by the tide of Paris life, in which the
hours<br>
 count for days.</p>

<p><br>
 One night, towards the end of the session, having occasion to
write up<br>
 a report to the Chamber of Deputies, he was obliged to sit at
work<br>
 till late at night. He had gone into his study at nine o'clock,
and,<br>
 while waiting till the man-servant should bring in the candles
with<br>
 green shades, his thoughts turned to his father. He was
blaming<br>
 himself for leaving the inquiry so much to the singer, and
had<br>
 resolved to see Monsieur Chapuzot himself on the morrow, when he
saw<br>
 in the twilight, outside the window, a handsome old head, bald
and<br>
 yellow, with a fringe of white hair.</p>

<p>"Would you please to give orders, sir, that a poor hermit is
to be<br>
 admitted, just come from the Desert, and who is instructed to
beg for<br>
 contributions towards rebuilding a holy house."</p>

<p>This apparition, which suddenly reminded the lawyer of a
prophecy<br>
 uttered by the terrible Nourrisson, gave him a shock.</p>

<p>"Let in that old man," said he to the servant.</p>

<p>"He will poison the place, sir," replied the man. "He has on a
brown<br>
 gown which he has never changed since he left Syria, and he has
no<br>
 shirt--"</p>

<p>"Show him in," repeated the master.</p>

<p>The old man came in. Victorin's keen eye examined this
so-called<br>
 pilgrim hermit, and he saw a fine specimen of the Neapolitan
friars,<br>
 whose frocks are akin to the rags of the <i>lazzaroni</i>, whose
sandals<br>
 are tatters of leather, as the friars are tatters of humanity.
The<br>
 get-up was so perfect that the lawyer, though still on his
guard, was<br>
 vexed with himself for having believed it to be one of
Madame<br>
 Nourrisson's tricks.</p>

<p>"How much to you want of me?"</p>

<p>"Whatever you feel that you ought to give me."</p>

<p>Victorin took a five-franc piece from a little pile on his
table, and<br>
 handed it to the stranger.</p>

<p>"That is not much on account of fifty thousand francs," said
the<br>
 pilgrim of the desert.</p>

<p>This speech removed all Victorin's doubts.</p>

<p>"And has Heaven kept its word?" he said, with a frown.</p>

<p>"The question is an offence, my son," said the hermit. "If you
do not<br>
 choose to pay till after the funeral, you are in your rights. I
will<br>
 return in a week's time."</p>

<p>"The funeral!" cried the lawyer, starting up.</p>

<p>"The world moves on," said the old man, as he withdrew, "and
the dead<br>
 move quickly in Paris!"</p>

<p>When Hulot, who stood looking down, was about to reply, the
stalwart<br>
 old man had vanished.</p>

<p>"I don't understand one word of all this," said Victorin to
himself.<br>
 "But at the end of the week I will ask him again about my
father, if<br>
 we have not yet found him. Where does Madame Nourrisson--yes,
that was<br>
 her name--pick up such actors?"</p>

<p>On the following day, Doctor Bianchon allowed the Baroness to
go down<br>
 into the garden, after examining Lisbeth, who had been obliged
to keep<br>
 to her room for a month by a slight bronchial attack. The
learned<br>
 doctor, who dared not pronounce a definite opinion on Lisbeth's
case<br>
 till he had seen some decisive symptoms, went into the garden
with<br>
 Adeline to observe the effect of the fresh air on her
nervous<br>
 trembling after two months of seclusion. He was interested and
allured<br>
 by the hope of curing this nervous complaint. On seeing the
great<br>
 physician sitting with them and sparing them a few minutes,
the<br>
 Baroness and her family conversed with him on general
subjects.</p>

<p>"You life is a very full and a very sad one," said Madame
Hulot. "I<br>
 know what it is to spend one's days in seeing poverty and
physical<br>
 suffering."</p>

<p>"I know, madame," replied the doctor, "all the scenes of which
charity<br>
 compels you to be a spectator; but you will get used to it in
time, as<br>
 we all do. It is the law of existence. The confessor, the
magistrate,<br>
 the lawyer would find life unendurable if the spirit of the
State did<br>
 not assert itself above the feelings of the individual. Could we
live<br>
 at all but for that? Is not the soldier in time of war brought
face to<br>
 face with spectacles even more dreadful than those we see? And
every<br>
 soldier that has been under fire is kind-hearted. We medical men
have<br>
 the pleasure now and again of a successful cure, as you have
that of<br>
 saving a family from the horrors of hunger, depravity, or
misery, and<br>
 of restoring it to social respectability. But what comfort can
the<br>
 magistrate find, the police agent, or the attorney, who spend
their<br>
 lives in investigating the basest schemes of self-interest, the
social<br>
 monster whose only regret is when it fails, but on whom
repentance<br>
 never dawns?</p>

<p>"One-half of society spends its life in watching the other
half. A<br>
 very old friend of mine is an attorney, now retired, who told me
that<br>
 for fifteen years past notaries and lawyers have distrusted
their<br>
 clients quite as much as their adversaries. Your son is a
pleader; has<br>
 he never found himself compromised by the client for whom he
held a<br>
 brief?"</p>

<p>"Very often," said Victorin, with a smile.</p>

<p>"And what is the cause of this deep-seated evil?" asked the
Baroness.</p>

<p>"The decay of religion," said Bianchon, "and the pre-eminence
of<br>
 finance, which is simply solidified selfishness. Money used not
to be<br>
 everything; there were some kinds of superiority that ranked
above it<br>
 --nobility, genius, service done to the State. But nowadays the
law<br>
 takes wealth as the universal standard, and regards it as the
measure<br>
 of public capacity. Certain magistrates are ineligible to the
Chamber;<br>
 Jean-Jacques Rousseau would be ineligible! The perpetual
subdivision<br>
 of estate compels every man to take care of himself from the age
of<br>
 twenty.</p>

<p>"Well, then, between the necessity for making a fortune and
the<br>
 depravity of speculation there is no check or hindrance; for
the<br>
 religious sense is wholly lacking in France, in spite of the
laudable<br>
 endeavors of those who are working for a Catholic revival. And
this is<br>
 the opinion of every man who, like me, studies society at the
core."</p>

<p>"And you have few pleasures?" said Hortense.</p>

<p>"The true physician, madame, is in love with his science,"
replied the<br>
 doctor. "He is sustained by that passion as much as by the sense
of<br>
 his usefulness to society.</p>

<p>"At this very time you see in me a sort of scientific rapture,
and<br>
 many superficial judges would regard me as a man devoid of
feeling. I<br>
 have to announce a discovery to-morrow to the College of
Medicine, for<br>
 I am studying a disease that had disappeared--a mortal disease
for<br>
 which no cure is known in temperate climates, though it is
curable in<br>
 the West Indies--a malady known here in the Middle Ages. A noble
fight<br>
 is that of the physician against such a disease. For the last
ten days<br>
 I have thought of nothing but these cases--for there are two,
a<br>
 husband and wife.--Are they not connections of yours? For you,
madame,<br>
 are surely Monsieur Crevel's daughter?" said he, addressing
Celestine.</p>

<p>"What, is my father your patient?" asked Celestine. "Living in
the Rue<br>
 Barbet-de-Jouy?"</p>

<p>"Precisely so," said Bianchon.</p>

<p>"And the disease is inevitably fatal?" said Victorin in
dismay.</p>

<p>"I will go to see him," said Celestine, rising.</p>

<p>"I positively forbid it, madame," Bianchon quietly said. "The
disease<br>
 is contagious."</p>

<p>"But you go there, monsieur," replied the young woman. "Do you
think<br>
 that a daughter's duty is less binding than a doctor's?"</p>

<p>"Madame, a physician knows how to protect himself against
infection,<br>
 and the rashness of your devotion proves to me that you would
probably<br>
 be less prudent than I."</p>

<p>Celestine, however, got up and went to her room, where she
dressed to<br>
 go out.</p>

<p>"Monsieur," said Victorin to Bianchon, "have you any hope of
saving<br>
 Monsieur and Madame Crevel?"</p>

<p>"I hope, but I do not believe that I may," said Bianchon. "The
case is<br>
 to me quite inexplicable. The disease is peculiar to negroes and
the<br>
 American tribes, whose skin is differently constituted to that
of the<br>
 white races. Now I can trace no connection with the
copper-colored<br>
 tribes, with negroes or half-castes, in Monsieur or Madame
Crevel.</p>

<p>"And though it is a very interesting disease to us, it is a
terrible<br>
 thing for the sufferers. The poor woman, who is said to have
been very<br>
 pretty, is punished for her sins, for she is now squalidly
hideous if<br>
 she is still anything at all. She is losing her hair and teeth,
her<br>
 skin is like a leper's, she is a horror to herself; her hands
are<br>
 horrible, covered with greenish pustules, her nails are loose,
and the<br>
 flesh is eaten away by the poisoned humors."</p>

<p>"And the cause of such a disease?" asked the lawyer.</p>

<p>"Oh!" said the doctor, "the cause lies in a form of rapid
blood-<br>
 poisoning; it degenerates with terrific rapidity. I hope to act
on the<br>
 blood; I am having it analyzed; and I am now going home to
ascertain<br>
 the result of the labors of my friend Professor Duval, the
famous<br>
 chemist, with a view to trying one of those desperate measures
by<br>
 which we sometimes attempt to defeat death."</p>

<p>"The hand of God is there!" said Adeline, in a voice husky
with<br>
 emotion. "Though that woman has brought sorrows on me which have
led<br>
 me in moments of madness to invoke the vengeance of Heaven, I
hope--<br>
 God knows I hope--you may succeed, doctor."</p>

<p>Victorin felt dizzy. He looked at his mother, his sister, and
the<br>
 physician by turns, quaking lest they should read his thoughts.
He<br>
 felt himself a murderer.</p>

<p>Hortense, for her part, thought God was just.</p>

<p>Celestine came back to beg her husband to accompany her.</p>

<p>"If you insist on going, madame, and you too, monsieur, keep
at least<br>
 a foot between you and the bed of the sufferer, that is the
chief<br>
 precaution. Neither you nor your wife must dream of kissing the
dying<br>
 man. And, indeed, you ought to go with your wife, Monsieur
Hulot, to<br>
 hinder her from disobeying my injunctions."</p>

<p>Adeline and Hortense, when they were left alone, went to sit
with<br>
 Lisbeth. Hortense had such a virulent hatred of Valerie that she
could<br>
 not contain the expression of it.</p>

<p>"Cousin Lisbeth," she exclaimed, "my mother and I are avenged!
that<br>
 venomous snake is herself bitten--she is rotting in her
bed!"</p>

<p>"Hortense, at this moment you are not a Christian. You ought
to pray<br>
 to God to vouchsafe repentance to this wretched woman."</p>

<p>"What are you talking about?" said Betty, rising from her
couch. "Are<br>
 you speaking of Valerie?"</p>

<p>"Yes," replied Adeline; "she is past hope--dying of some
horrible<br>
 disease of which the mere description makes one shudder----"</p>

<p>Lisbeth's teeth chattered, a cold sweat broke out all over
her; the<br>
 violence of the shock showed how passionate her attachment to
Valerie<br>
 had been.</p>

<p>"I must go there," said she.</p>

<p>"But the doctor forbids your going out."</p>

<p>"I do not care--I must go!--Poor Crevel! what a state he must
be in;<br>
 for he loves that woman."</p>

<p>"He is dying too," replied Countess Steinbock. "Ah! all our
enemies<br>
 are in the devil's clutches--"</p>

<p>"In God's hands, my child--"</p>

<p>Lisbeth dressed in the famous yellow Indian shawl and her
black velvet<br>
 bonnet, and put on her boots; in spite of her relations'<br>
 remonstrances, she set out as if driven by some irresistible
power.</p>

<p>She arrived in the Rue Barbet a few minutes after Monsieur and
Madame<br>
 Hulot, and found seven physicians there, brought by Bianchon to
study<br>
 this unique case; he had just joined them. The physicians,
assembled<br>
 in the drawing-room, were discussing the disease; now one and
now<br>
 another went into Valerie's room or Crevel's to take a note,
and<br>
 returned with an opinion based on this rapid study.</p>

<p><br>
 These princes of science were divided in their opinions. One,
who<br>
 stood alone in his views, considered it a case of poisoning,
of<br>
 private revenge, and denied its identity with the disease known
in the<br>
 Middle Ages. Three others regarded it as a specific
deterioration of<br>
 the blood and the humors. The rest, agreeing with Bianchon,
maintained<br>
 that the blood was poisoned by some hitherto unknown morbid
infection.<br>
 Bianchon produced Professor Duval's analysis of the blood.
The<br>
 remedies to be applied, though absolutely empirical and without
hope,<br>
 depended on the verdict in this medical dilemma.</p>

<p>Lisbeth stood as if petrified three yards away from the bed
where<br>
 Valerie lay dying, as she saw a priest from Saint-Thomas
d'Aquin<br>
 standing by her friend's pillow, and a sister of charity in<br>
 attendance. Religion could find a soul to save in a mass of
rottenness<br>
 which, of the five senses of man, had now only that of sight.
The<br>
 sister of charity who alone had been found to nurse Valerie
stood<br>
 apart. Thus the Catholic religion, that divine institution,
always<br>
 actuated by the spirit of self-sacrifice, under its twofold
aspect of<br>
 the Spirit and the Flesh, was tending this horrible and
atrocious<br>
 creature, soothing her death-bed by its infinite benevolence
and<br>
 inexhaustible stores of mercy.</p>

<p>The servants, in horror, refused to go into the room of either
their<br>
 master or mistress; they thought only of themselves, and judged
their<br>
 betters as righteously stricken. The smell was so foul that in
spite<br>
 of open windows and strong perfumes, no one could remain long
in<br>
 Valerie's room. Religion alone kept guard there.</p>

<p>How could a woman so clever as Valerie fail to ask herself to
what end<br>
 these two representatives of the Church remained with her? The
dying<br>
 woman had listened to the words of the priest. Repentance had
risen on<br>
 her darkened soul as the devouring malady had consumed her
beauty. The<br>
 fragile Valerie had been less able to resist the inroads of
the<br>
 disease than Crevel; she would be the first to succumb, and,
indeed,<br>
 had been the first attacked.</p>

<p>"If I had not been ill myself, I would have come to nurse
you," said<br>
 Lisbeth at last, after a glance at her friend's sunken eyes. "I
have<br>
 kept my room this fortnight or three weeks; but when I heard of
your<br>
 state from the doctor, I came at once."</p>

<p>"Poor Lisbeth, you at least love me still, I see!" said
Valerie.<br>
 "Listen. I have only a day or two left to think, for I cannot
say to<br>
 live. You see, there is nothing left of me--I am a heap of mud!
They<br>
 will not let me see myself in a glass.--Well, it is no more than
I<br>
 deserve. Oh, if I might only win mercy, I would gladly undo all
the<br>
 mischief I have done."</p>

<p>"Oh!" said Lisbeth, "if you can talk like that, you are indeed
a dead<br>
 woman."</p>

<p>"Do not hinder this woman's repentance, leave her in her
Christian<br>
 mind," said the priest.</p>

<p>"There is nothing left!" said Lisbeth in consternation. "I
cannot<br>
 recognize her eyes or her mouth! Not a feature of her is there!
And<br>
 her wit has deserted her! Oh, it is awful!"</p>

<p>"You don't know," said Valerie, "what death is; what it is to
be<br>
 obliged to think of the morrow of your last day on earth, and of
what<br>
 is to be found in the grave.--Worms for the body--and for the
soul,<br>
 what?--Lisbeth, I know there is another life! And I am given
over to<br>
 terrors which prevent my feeling the pangs of my decomposing
body.--I,<br>
 who could laugh at a saint, and say to Crevel that the vengeance
of<br>
 God took every form of disaster.-- Well, I was a true
prophet.--Do not<br>
 trifle with sacred things, Lisbeth; if you love me, repent as I
do."</p>

<p>"I!" said Lisbeth. "I see vengeance wherever I turn in nature;
insects<br>
 even die to satisfy the craving for revenge when they are
attacked.<br>
 And do not these gentlemen tell us"--and she looked at the
priest--<br>
 "that God is revenged, and that His vengeance lasts through
all<br>
 eternity?"</p>

<p>The priest looked mildly at Lisbeth and said:</p>

<p>"You, madame, are an atheist!"</p>

<p>"But look what I have come to," said Valerie.</p>

<p>"And where did you get this gangrene?" asked the old maid,
unmoved<br>
 from her peasant incredulity.</p>

<p>"I had a letter from Henri which leaves me in no doubt as to
my fate.<br>
 He has murdered me. And--just when I meant to live honestly--to
die an<br>
 object of disgust!</p>

<p>"Lisbeth, give up all notions of revenge. Be kind to that
family to<br>
 whom I have left by my will everything I can dispose of. Go,
child,<br>
 though you are the only creature who, at this hour, does not
avoid me<br>
 with horror--go, I beseech you, and leave me.--I have only time
to<br>
 make my peace with God!"</p>

<p>"She is wandering in her wits," said Lisbeth to herself, as
she left<br>
 the room.</p>

<p>The strongest affection known, that of a woman for a woman,
had not<br>
 such heroic constancy as the Church. Lisbeth, stifled by the
miasma,<br>
 went away. She found the physicians still in consultation.
But<br>
 Bianchon's opinion carried the day, and the only question now
was how<br>
 to try the remedies.</p>

<p>"At any rate, we shall have a splendid <i>post-mortem</i>,"
said one of his<br>
 opponents, "and there will be two cases to enable us to make<br>
 comparisons."</p>

<p>Lisbeth went in again with Bianchon, who went up to the sick
woman<br>
 without seeming aware of the malodorous atmosphere.</p>

<p>"Madame," said he, "we intend to try a powerful remedy which
may save<br>
 you--"</p>

<p>"And if you save my life," said she, "shall I be as
good-looking as<br>
 ever?"</p>

<p>"Possibly," said the judicious physician.</p>

<p>"I know your <i>possibly</i>," said Valerie. "I shall look
like a woman who<br>
 has fallen into the fire! No, leave me to the Church. I can
please no<br>
 one now but God. I will try to be reconciled to Him, and that
will be<br>
 my last flirtation; yes, I must try to come round God!"</p>

<p>"That is my poor Valerie's last jest; that is all herself!"
said<br>
 Lisbeth in tears.</p>

<p>Lisbeth thought it her duty to go into Crevel's room, where
she found<br>
 Victorin and his wife sitting about a yard away from the
stricken<br>
 man's bed.</p>

<p>"Lisbeth," said he, "they will not tell me what state my wife
is in;<br>
 you have just seen her--how is she?"</p>

<p>"She is better; she says she is saved," replied Lisbeth,
allowing<br>
 herself this play on the word to soothe Crevel's mind.</p>

<p>"That is well," said the Mayor. "I feared lest I had been the
cause of<br>
 her illness. A man is not a traveler in perfumery for nothing; I
had<br>
 blamed myself.--If I should lose her, what would become of me?
On my<br>
 honor, my children, I worship that woman."</p>

<p>He sat up in bed and tried to assume his favorite
position.</p>

<p>"Oh, Papa!" cried Celestine, "if only you could be well again,
I would<br>
 make friends with my stepmother--I make a vow!"</p>

<p>"Poor little Celestine!" said Crevel, "come and kiss me."</p>

<p>Victorin held back his wife, who was rushing forward.</p>

<p>"You do not know, perhaps," said the lawyer gently, "that your
disease<br>
 is contagious, monsieur."</p>

<p>"To be sure," replied Crevel. "And the doctors are quite proud
of<br>
 having rediscovered in me some long lost plague of the Middle
Ages,<br>
 which the Faculty has had cried like lost property--it is very
funny!"</p>

<p>"Papa," said Celestine, "be brave, and you will get the better
of this<br>
 disease."</p>

<p>"Be quite easy, my children; Death thinks twice of it before
carrying<br>
 off a Mayor of Paris," said he, with monstrous composure. "And
if,<br>
 after all, my district is so unfortunate as to lose a man it has
twice<br>
 honored with its suffrages--you see, what a flow of words I
have!--<br>
 Well, I shall know how to pack up and go. I have been a
commercial<br>
 traveler; I am experienced in such matters. Ah! my children, I
am a<br>
 man of strong mind."</p>

<p>"Papa, promise me to admit the Church--"</p>

<p>"Never," replied Crevel. "What is to be said? I drank the milk
of<br>
 Revolution; I have not Baron Holbach's wit, but I have his
strength of<br>
 mind. I am more <i>Regence</i> than ever, more Musketeer, Abbe
Dubois, and<br>
 Marechal de Richelieu! By the Holy Poker!--My wife, who is
wandering<br>
 in her head, has just sent me a man in a gown--to me! the
admirer of<br>
 Beranger, the friend of Lisette, the son of Voltaire and
Rousseau.--<br>
 The doctor, to feel my pulse, as it were, and see if sickness
had<br>
 subdued me--'You saw Monsieur l'Abbe?' said he.--Well, I
imitated the<br>
 great Montesquieu. Yes, I looked at the doctor--see, like this,"
and<br>
 he turned to show three-quarters face, like his portrait, and
extended<br>
 his hand authoritatively--"and I said:</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"The slave was here,<br>
 He showed his order, but he nothing gained.</p>
</blockquote>

<p><i>"His order</i> is a pretty jest, showing that even in death
Monsieur le<br>
 President de Montesquieu preserved his elegant wit, for they had
sent<br>
 him a Jesuit. I admire that passage--I cannot say of his life,
but of<br>
 his death--the passage--another joke!--The passage from life to
death<br>
 --the Passage Montesquieu!"</p>

<p><br>
 Victorin gazed sadly at his father-in-law, wondering whether
folly and<br>
 vanity were not forces on a par with true greatness of soul.
The<br>
 causes that act on the springs of the soul seem to be quite<br>
 independent of the results. Can it be that the fortitude which
upholds<br>
 a great criminal is the same as that which a Champcenetz so
proudly<br>
 walks to the scaffold?</p>

<p>By the end of the week Madame Crevel was buried, after
dreadful<br>
 sufferings; and Crevel followed her within two days. Thus
the<br>
 marriage-contract was annulled. Crevel was heir to Valerie.</p>

<p>On the very day after the funeral, the friar called again on
the<br>
 lawyer, who received him in perfect silence. The monk held out
his<br>
 hand without a word, and without a word Victorin Hulot gave him
eighty<br>
 thousand-franc notes, taken from a sum of money found in
Crevel's<br>
 desk.</p>

<p>Young Madame Hulot inherited the estate of Presles and thirty
thousand<br>
 francs a year.</p>

<p>Madame Crevel had bequeathed a sum of three hundred thousand
francs to<br>
 Baron Hulot. Her scrofulous boy Stanislas was to inherit, at
his<br>
 majority, the Hotel Crevel and eighty thousand francs a
year.</p>

<p>Among the many noble associations founded in Paris by
Catholic<br>
 charity, there is one, originated by Madame de la Chanterie,
for<br>
 promoting civil and religious marriages between persons who
have<br>
 formed a voluntary but illicit union. Legislators, who draw
large<br>
 revenues from the registration fees, and the Bourgeois dynasty,
which<br>
 benefits by the notary's profits, affect to overlook the fact
that<br>
 three-fourths of the poorer class cannot afford fifteen francs
for the<br>
 marriage-contract. The pleaders, a sufficiently vilified
body,<br>
 gratuitously defend the cases of the indigent, while the
notaries have<br>
 not as yet agreed to charge nothing for the marriage-contract of
the<br>
 poor. As to the revenue collectors, the whole machinery of
Government<br>
 would have to be dislocated to induce the authorities to relax
their<br>
 demands. The registrar's office is deaf and dumb.</p>

<p>Then the Church, too, receives a duty on marriages. In France
the<br>
 Church depends largely on such revenues; even in the House of
God it<br>
 traffics in chairs and kneeling stools in a way that offends<br>
 foreigners; though it cannot have forgotten the anger of the
Saviour<br>
 who drove the money-changers out of the Temple. If the Church is
so<br>
 loath to relinquish its dues, it must be supposed that these
dues,<br>
 known as Vestry dues, are one of its sources of maintenance, and
then<br>
 the fault of the Church is the fault of the State.</p>

<p>The co-operation of these conditions, at a time when charity
is too<br>
 greatly concerned with the negroes and the petty offenders
discharged<br>
 from prison to trouble itself about honest folks in
difficulties,<br>
 results in the existence of a number of decent couples who have
never<br>
 been legally married for lack of thirty francs, the lowest
figure for<br>
 which the Notary, the Registrar, the Mayor and the Church will
unite<br>
 two citizens of Paris. Madame de la Chanterie's fund, founded
to<br>
 restore poor households to their religious and legal status,
hunts up<br>
 such couples, and with all the more success because it helps
them in<br>
 their poverty before attacking their unlawful union.</p>

<p>As soon as Madame Hulot had recovered, she returned to her<br>
 occupations. And then it was that the admirable Madame de la
Chanterie<br>
 came to beg that Adeline would add the legalization of these
voluntary<br>
 unions to the other good works of which she was the
instrument.</p>

<p>One of the Baroness' first efforts in this cause was made in
the<br>
 ominous-looking district, formerly known as la Petite
Pologne--Little<br>
 Poland--bounded by the Rue du Rocher, Rue de la Pepiniere, and
Rue de<br>
 Miromenil. There exists there a sort of offshoot of the
Faubourg<br>
 Saint-Marceau. To give an idea of this part of the town, it is
enough<br>
 to say that the landlords of some of the houses tenanted by
working<br>
 men without work, by dangerous characters, and by the very
poor<br>
 employed in unhealthy toil, dare not demand their rents, and can
find<br>
 no bailiffs bold enough to evict insolvent lodgers. At the
present<br>
 time speculating builders, who are fast changing the aspect of
this<br>
 corner of Paris, and covering the waste ground lying between the
Rue<br>
 d'Amsterdam and the Rue Faubourg-du-Roule, will no doubt alter
the<br>
 character of the inhabitants; for the trowel is a more
civilizing<br>
 agent than is generally supposed. By erecting substantial and
handsome<br>
 houses, with porters at the doors, by bordering the streets
with<br>
 footwalks and shops, speculation, while raising the rents,
disperses<br>
 the squalid class, families bereft of furniture, and lodgers
that<br>
 cannot pay. And so these districts are cleared of such
objectionable<br>
 residents, and the dens vanish into which the police never
venture but<br>
 under the sanction of the law.</p>

<p>In June 1844, the purlieus of the Place de Laborde were still
far from<br>
 inviting. The genteel pedestrian, who by chance should turn out
of the<br>
 Rue de la Pepiniere into one of those dreadful side-streets,
would<br>
 have been dismayed to see how vile a bohemia dwelt cheek by jowl
with<br>
 the aristocracy. In such places as these, haunted by ignorant
poverty<br>
 and misery driven to bay, flourish the last public
letter-writers who<br>
 are to be found in Paris. Wherever you see the two words
"Ecrivain<br>
 Public" written in a fine copy hand on a sheet of letter-paper
stuck<br>
 to the window pane of some low entresol or mud-splashed
ground-floor<br>
 room, you may safely conclude that the neighborhood is the
lurking<br>
 place of many unlettered folks, and of much vice and crime,
the<br>
 outcome of misery; for ignorance is the mother of all sorts of
crime.<br>
 A crime is, in the first instance, a defect of reasoning
powers.</p>

<p>While the Baroness had been ill, this quarter, to which she
was a<br>
 minor Providence, had seen the advent of a public writer who
settled<br>
 in the Passage du Soleil--Sun Alley--a spot of which the name is
one<br>
 of the antitheses dear to the Parisian, for the passage is
especially<br>
 dark. This writer, supposed to be a German, was named Vyder, and
he<br>
 lived on matrimonial terms with a young creature of whom he was
so<br>
 jealous that he never allowed her to go anywhere excepting to
some<br>
 honest stove and flue-fitters, in the Rue Saint-Lazare,
Italians, as<br>
 such fitters always are, but long since established in Paris.
These<br>
 people had been saved from a bankruptcy, which would have
reduced them<br>
 to misery, by the Baroness, acting in behalf of Madame de la<br>
 Chanterie. In a few months comfort had taken the place of
poverty, and<br>
 Religion had found a home in hearts which once had cursed Heaven
with<br>
 the energy peculiar to Italian stove-fitters. So one of Madame
Hulot's<br>
 first visits was to this family.</p>

<p>She was pleased at the scene that presented itself to her eyes
at the<br>
 back of the house where these worthy folks lived in the Rue
Saint-<br>
 Lazare, not far from the Rue du Rocher. High above the stores
and<br>
 workshops, now well filled, where toiled a swarm of apprentices
and<br>
 workmen--all Italians from the valley of Domo d'Ossola--the
master's<br>
 family occupied a set of rooms, which hard work had blessed
with<br>
 abundance. The Baroness was hailed like the Virgin Mary in
person.</p>

<p>After a quarter of an hour's questioning, Adeline, having to
wait for<br>
 the father to inquire how his business was prospering, pursued
her<br>
 saintly calling as a spy by asking whether they knew of any
families<br>
 needing help.</p>

<p>"Ah, dear lady, you who could save the damned from hell!" said
the<br>
 Italian wife, "there is a girl quite near here to be saved
from<br>
 perdition."</p>

<p>"A girl well known to you?" asked the Baroness.</p>

<p>"She is the granddaughter of a master my husband formerly
worked for,<br>
 who came to France in 1798, after the Revolution, by name
Judici. Old<br>
 Judici, in Napoleon's time, was one of the principal
stove-fitters in<br>
 Paris; he died in 1819, leaving his son a fine fortune. But
the<br>
 younger Judici wasted all his money on bad women; till, at last,
he<br>
 married one who was sharper than the rest, and she had this
poor<br>
 little girl, who is just turned fifteen."</p>

<p>"And what is wrong with her?" asked Adeline, struck by the
resemblance<br>
 between this Judici and her husband.</p>

<p>"Well, madame, this child, named Atala, ran away from her
father, and<br>
 came to live close by here with an old German of eighty at
least,<br>
 named Vyder, who does odd jobs for people who cannot read and
write.<br>
 Now, if this old sinner, who bought the child of her mother,
they say<br>
 for fifteen hundred francs, would but marry her, as he certainly
has<br>
 not long to live, and as he is said to have some few thousand
of<br>
 francs a year--well, the poor thing, who is a sweet little
angel,<br>
 would be out of mischief, and above want, which must be the ruin
of<br>
 her."</p>

<p>"Thank you very much for the information. I may do some good,
but I<br>
 must act with caution.--Who is the old man?"</p>

<p>"Oh! madame, he is a good old fellow; he makes the child very
happy,<br>
 and he has some sense too, for he left the part of town where
the<br>
 Judicis live, as I believe, to snatch the child from her
mother's<br>
 clutches. The mother was jealous of her, and I dare say she
thought<br>
 she could make money out of her beauty and make a
<i>mademoiselle</i> of<br>
 the girl.</p>

<p>"Atala remembered us, and advised her gentleman to settle near
us; and<br>
 as the good man sees how decent we are, he allows her to come
here.<br>
 But get them married, madame, and you will do an action worthy
of you.<br>
 Once married, the child will be independent and free from her
mother,<br>
 who keeps an eye on her, and who, if she could make money by
her,<br>
 would like to see her on the stage, or successful in the wicked
life<br>
 she meant her to lead."</p>

<p>"Why doesn't the old man marry her?"</p>

<p>"There was no necessity for it, you see," said the Italian.
"And<br>
 though old Vyder is not a bad old fellow, I fancy he is sharp
enough<br>
 to wish to remain the master, while if he once got married--why,
the<br>
 poor man is afraid of the stone that hangs round every old
man's<br>
 neck."</p>

<p>"Could you send for the girl to come here?" said Madame Hulot.
"I<br>
 should see her quietly, and find out what could be done--"</p>

<p>The stove-fitter's wife signed to her eldest girl, who ran
off. Ten<br>
 minutes later she returned, leading by the hand a child of
fifteen and<br>
 a half, a beauty of the Italian type. Mademoiselle Judici
inherited<br>
 from her father that ivory skin which, rather yellow by day, is
by<br>
 artificial light of lily-whiteness; eyes of Oriental beauty,
form, and<br>
 brilliancy, close curling lashes like black feathers, hair of
ebony<br>
 hue, and that native dignity of the Lombard race which makes
the<br>
 foreigner, as he walks through Milan on a Sunday, fancy that
every<br>
 porter's daughter is a princess.</p>

<p>Atala, told by the stove-fitter's daughter that she was to
meet the<br>
 great lady of whom she had heard so much, had hastily dressed in
a<br>
 black silk gown, a smart little cape, and neat boots. A cap with
a<br>
 cherry-colored bow added to the brilliant effect of her
coloring. The<br>
 child stood in an attitude of artless curiosity, studying the
Baroness<br>
 out of the corner of her eye, for her palsied trembling puzzled
her<br>
 greatly.</p>

<p>Adeline sighed deeply as she saw this jewel of womanhood in
the mire<br>
 of prostitution, and determined to rescue her to virtue.</p>

<p>"What is your name, my dear?"</p>

<p>"Atala, madame."</p>

<p>"And can you read and write?"</p>

<p>"No, madame; but that does not matter, as monsieur can."</p>

<p>"Did your parents ever take you to church? Have you been to
your first<br>
 Communion? Do you know your Catechism?"</p>

<p>"Madame, papa wanted to make me do something of the kind you
speak of,<br>
 but mamma would not have it--"</p>

<p>"Your mother?" exclaimed the Baroness. "Is she bad to you,
then?"</p>

<p>"She was always beating me. I don't know why, but I was always
being<br>
 quarreled over by my father and mother--"</p>

<p>"Did you ever hear of God?" cried the Baroness.</p>

<p>The girl looked up wide-eyed.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, papa and mamma often said 'Good God,' and 'In God's
name,'<br>
 and 'God's thunder,' " said she, with perfect simplicity.</p>

<p>"Then you never saw a church? Did you never think of going
into one?"</p>

<p>"A church?--Notre-Dame, the Pantheon?--I have seen them from
a<br>
 distance, when papa took me into town; but that was not very
often.<br>
 There are no churches like those in the Faubourg."</p>

<p>"Which Faubourg did you live in?"</p>

<p>"In the Faubourg."</p>

<p>"Yes, but which?"</p>

<p>"In the Rue de Charonne, madame."</p>

<p>The inhabitants of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine never call
that<br>
 notorious district other than <i>the</i> Faubourg. To them it is
the one<br>
 and only Faubourg; and manufacturers generally understand the
words as<br>
 meaning the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.</p>

<p>"Did no one ever tell you what was right or wrong?"</p>

<p>"Mamma used to beat me when I did not do what pleased
her."</p>

<p>"But did you not know that it was very wicked to run away from
your<br>
 father and mother to go to live with an old man?"</p>

<p>Atala Judici gazed at the Baroness with a haughty stare, but
made no<br>
 reply.</p>

<p>"She is a perfect little savage," murmured Adeline.</p>

<p>"There are a great many like her in the Faubourg, madame,"
said the<br>
 stove-fitter's wife.</p>

<p>"But she knows nothing--not even what is wrong. Good
Heavens!--Why do<br>
 you not answer me?" said Madame Hulot, putting out her hand to
take<br>
 Atala's.</p>

<p>Atala indignantly withdrew a step.</p>

<p>"You are an old fool!" said she. "Why, my father and mother
had had<br>
 nothing to eat for a week. My mother wanted me to do much worse
than<br>
 that, I think, for my father thrashed her and called her a
thief!<br>
 However, Monsieur Vyder paid all their debts, and gave them some
money<br>
 --oh, a bagful! And he brought me away, and poor papa was
crying. But<br>
 we had to part!--Was it wicked?" she asked.</p>

<p>"And are you very fond of Monsieur Vyder?"</p>

<p>"Fond of him?" said she. "I should think so! He tells me
beautiful<br>
 stories, madame, every evening; and he has given me nice gowns,
and<br>
 linen, and a shawl. Why, I am figged out like a princess, and I
never<br>
 wear sabots now. And then, I have not known what it is to be
hungry<br>
 these two months past. And I don't live on potatoes now. He
brings me<br>
 bonbons and burnt almonds, and chocolate almonds.--Aren't they
good?--<br>
 I do anything he pleases for a bag of chocolate.--Then my old
Daddy is<br>
 very kind; he takes such care of me, and is so nice; I know now
what<br>
 my mother ought to have been.--He is going to get an old woman
to help<br>
 me, for he doesn't like me to dirty my hands with cooking. For
the<br>
 past month, too, he has been making a little money, and he gives
me<br>
 three francs every evening that I put into a money-box. Only he
will<br>
 never let me out except to come here--and he calls me his
little<br>
 kitten! Mamma never called me anything but bad names--and thief,
and<br>
 vermin!"</p>

<p><br>
 "Well, then, my child, why should not Daddy Vyder be your
husband?"</p>

<p>"But he is, madame," said the girl, looking at Adeline with
calm<br>
 pride, without a blush, her brow smooth, her eyes steady. "He
told me<br>
 that I was his little wife; but it is a horrid bore to be a
man's wife<br>
 --if it were not for the burnt almonds!"</p>

<p>"Good Heaven!" said the Baroness to herself, "what monster can
have<br>
 had the heart to betray such perfect, such holy innocence? To
restore<br>
 this child to the ways of virtue would surely atone for many
sins.--I<br>
 knew what I was doing." thought she, remembering the scene
with<br>
 Crevel. "But she--she knows nothing."</p>

<p>"Do you know Monsieur Samanon?" asked Atala, with an
insinuating look.</p>

<p>"No, my child; but why do you ask?"</p>

<p>"Really and truly?" said the artless girl.</p>

<p>"You have nothing to fear from this lady," said the Italian
woman.<br>
 "She is an angel."</p>

<p>"It is because my good old boy is afraid of being caught by
Samanon.<br>
 He is hiding, and I wish he could be free--"</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>"On! then he would take me to Bobino, perhaps to the
Ambigu."</p>

<p>"What a delightful creature!" said the Baroness, kissing the
girl.</p>

<p>"Are you rich?" asked Atala, who was fingering the Baroness'
lace<br>
 ruffles.</p>

<p>"Yes, and No," replied Madame Hulot. "I am rich for dear
little girls<br>
 like you when they are willing to be taught their duties as
Christians<br>
 by a priest, and to walk in the right way."</p>

<p>"What way is that?" said Atala; "I walk on my two feet."</p>

<p>"The way of virtue."</p>

<p>Atala looked at the Baroness with a crafty smile.</p>

<p>"Look at madame," said the Baroness, pointing to the
stove-fitter's<br>
 wife, "she has been quite happy because she was received into
the<br>
 bosom of the Church. You married like the beasts that
perish."</p>

<p>"I?" said Atala. "Why, if you will give me as much as Daddy
Vyder<br>
 gives me, I shall be quite happy unmarried again. It is a
grind.--Do<br>
 you know what it is to--?"</p>

<p>"But when once you are united to a man as you are," the
Baroness put<br>
 in, "virtue requires you to remain faithful to him."</p>

<p>"Till he dies," said Atala, with a knowing flash. "I shall not
have to<br>
 wait long. If you only knew how Daddy Vyder coughs and
blows.--Poof,<br>
 poof," and she imitated the old man.</p>

<p>"Virtue and morality require that the Church, representing
God, and<br>
 the Mayor, representing the law, should consecrate your
marriage,"<br>
 Madame Hulot went on. "Look at madame; she is legally
married--"</p>

<p>"Will it make it more amusing?" asked the girl.</p>

<p>"You will be happier," said the Baroness, "for no one could
then blame<br>
 you. You would satisfy God! Ask her if she was married without
the<br>
 sacrament of marriage!"</p>

<p>Atala looked at the Italian.</p>

<p>"How is she any better than I am?" she asked. "I am prettier
than she<br>
 is."</p>

<p>"Yes, but I am an honest woman," said the wife, "and you may
be called<br>
 by a bad name."</p>

<p>"How can you expect God to protect you if you trample every
law, human<br>
 and divine, under foot?" said the Baroness. "Don't you know that
God<br>
 has Paradise in store for those who obey the injunctions of
His<br>
 Church?"</p>

<p>"What is there in Paradise? Are there playhouses?"</p>

<p>"Paradise!" said Adeline, "is every joy you can conceive of.
It is<br>
 full of angels with white wings. You see God in all His glory,
you<br>
 share His power, you are happy for every minute of
eternity!"</p>

<p>Atala listened to the lady as she might have listened to
music; but<br>
 Adeline, seeing that she was incapable of understanding her,
thought<br>
 she had better take another line of action and speak to the old
man.</p>

<p>"Go home, then, my child, and I will go to see Monsieur Vyder.
Is he a<br>
 Frenchman?"</p>

<p>"He is an Alsatian, madame. But he will be quite rich soon. If
you<br>
 would pay what he owes to that vile Samanon, he would give you
back<br>
 your money, for in a few months he will be getting six thousand
francs<br>
 a year, he says, and we are to go to live in the country a long
way<br>
 off, in the Vosges."</p>

<p>At the word <i>Vosges</i> the Baroness sat lost in reverie. It
called up<br>
 the vision of her native village. She was roused from her
melancholy<br>
 meditation by the entrance of the stove-fitter, who came to
assure her<br>
 of his prosperity.</p>

<p>"In a year's time, madame, I can repay the money you lent us,
for it<br>
 is God's money, the money of the poor and wretched. If ever I
make a<br>
 fortune, come to me for what you want, and I will render through
you<br>
 the help to others which you first brought us."</p>

<p>"Just now," said Madame Hulot, "I do not need your money, but
I ask<br>
 your assistance in a good work. I have just seen that little
Judici,<br>
 who is living with an old man, and I mean to see them regularly
and<br>
 legally married."</p>

<p>"Ah! old Vyder; he is a very worthy old fellow, with plenty of
good<br>
 sense. The poor old man has already made friends in the
neighborhood,<br>
 though he has been here but two months. He keeps my accounts for
me.<br>
 He is, I believe, a brave Colonel who served the Emperor well.
And how<br>
 he adores Napoleon!--He has some orders, but he never wears
them. He<br>
 is waiting till he is straight again, for he is in debt, poor
old boy!<br>
 In fact, I believe he is hiding, threatened by the law--"</p>

<p>"Tell him that I will pay his debts if he will marry the
child."</p>

<p>"Oh, that will soon be settled.--Suppose you were to see him,
madame;<br>
 it is not two steps away, in the Passage du Soleil."</p>

<p>So the lady and the stove-fitter went out.</p>

<p>"This way, madame," said the man, turning down the Rue de
la<br>
 Pepiniere.</p>

<p>The alley runs, in fact, from the bottom of this street
through to the<br>
 Rue du Rocher. Halfway down this passage, recently opened
through,<br>
 where the shops let at a very low rent, the Baroness saw on a
window,<br>
 screened up to a height with a green, gauze curtain, which
excluded<br>
 the prying eyes of the passer-by, the words:</p>

<p><br>
 "ECRIVAIN PUBLIC";</p>

<p>and on the door the announcement:</p>

<p>BUSINESS TRANSACTED.</p>

<p><i>Petitions Drawn Up, Accounts Audited, Etc.</i></p>

<p><i>With Secrecy and Dispatch.</i></p>

<p><br>
 The shop was like one of those little offices where travelers
by<br>
 omnibus wait the vehicles to take them on to their destination.
A<br>
 private staircase led up, no doubt, to the living-rooms on
the<br>
 entresol which were let with the shop. Madame Hulot saw a
dirty<br>
 writing-table of some light wood, some letter-boxes, and a
wretched<br>
 second-hand chair. A cap with a peak and a greasy green shade
for the<br>
 eyes suggested either precautions for disguise, or weak eyes,
which<br>
 was not unlikely in an old man.</p>

<p>"He is upstairs," said the stove-fitter. "I will go up and
tell him to<br>
 come down."</p>

<p>Adeline lowered her veil and took a seat. A heavy step made
the narrow<br>
 stairs creak, and Adeline could not restrain a piercing cry when
she<br>
 saw her husband, Baron Hulot, in a gray knitted jersey, old
gray<br>
 flannel trousers, and slippers.</p>

<p>"What is your business, madame?" said Hulot, with a
flourish.</p>

<p>She rose, seized Hulot by the arm, and said in a voice hoarse
with<br>
 emotion:</p>

<p>"At last--I have found you!"</p>

<p>"Adeline!" exclaimed the Baron in bewilderment, and he locked
the shop<br>
 door. "Joseph, go out the back way," he added to the
stove-fitter.</p>

<p>"My dear!" she said, forgetting everything in her excessive
joy, "you<br>
 can come home to us all; we are rich. Your son draws a hundred
and<br>
 sixty thousand francs a year! Your pension is released; there
are<br>
 fifteen thousand francs of arrears you can get on showing that
you are<br>
 alive. Valerie is dead, and left you three hundred thousand
francs.</p>

<p>"Your name is quite forgotten by this time; you may reappear
in the<br>
 world, and you will find a fortune awaiting you at your son's
house.<br>
 Come; our happiness will be complete. For nearly three years I
have<br>
 been seeking you, and I felt so sure of finding you that a room
is<br>
 ready waiting for you. Oh! come away from this, come away from
the<br>
 dreadful state I see you in!"</p>

<p>"I am very willing," said the bewildered Baron, "but can I
take the<br>
 girl?"</p>

<p>"Hector, give her up! Do that much for your Adeline, who has
never<br>
 before asked you to make the smallest sacrifice. I promise you I
will<br>
 give the child a marriage portion; I will see that she marries
well,<br>
 and has some education. Let it be said of one of the women who
have<br>
 given you happiness that she too is happy; and do not relapse
into<br>
 vice, into the mire."</p>

<p>"So it was you," said the Baron, with a smile, "who wanted to
see me<br>
 married?--Wait a few minutes," he added; "I will go upstairs
and<br>
 dress; I have some decent clothes in a trunk."</p>

<p>Adeline, left alone, and looking round the squalid shop,
melted into<br>
 tears.</p>

<p>"He has been living here, and we rolling in wealth!" said she
to<br>
 herself. "Poor man, he has indeed been punished--he who was
elegance<br>
 itself."</p>

<p>The stove-fitter returned to make his bow to his benefactress,
and she<br>
 desired him to fetch a coach. When he came back, she begged him
to<br>
 give little Atala Judici a home, and to take her away at
once.</p>

<p>"And tell her that if she will place herself under the
guidance of<br>
 Monsieur the Cure of the Madeleine, on the day when she attends
her<br>
 first Communion I will give her thirty thousand francs and find
her a<br>
 good husband, some worthy young man."</p>

<p>"My eldest son, then madame! He is two-and-twenty, and he
worships the<br>
 child."</p>

<p>The Baron now came down; there were tears in his eyes.</p>

<p>"You are forcing me to desert the only creature who had ever
begun to<br>
 love me at all as you do!" said he in a whisper to his wife.
"She is<br>
 crying bitterly, and I cannot abandon her so--"</p>

<p>"Be quite easy, Hector. She will find a home with honest
people, and I<br>
 will answer for her conduct."</p>

<p>"Well, then, I can go with you," said the Baron, escorting his
wife to<br>
 the cab.</p>

<p>Hector, the Baron d'Ervy once more, had put on a blue coat
and<br>
 trousers, a white waistcoat, a black stock, and gloves. When
the<br>
 Baroness had taken her seat in the vehicle, Atala slipped in
like an<br>
 eel.</p>

<p>"Oh, madame," she said, "let me go with you. I will be so
good, so<br>
 obedient; I will do whatever you wish; but do not part me from
my<br>
 Daddy Vyder, my kind Daddy who gives me such nice things. I
shall be<br>
 beaten--"</p>

<p>"Come, come, Atala," said the Baron, "this lady is my wife--we
must<br>
 part--"</p>

<p>"She! As old as that! and shaking like a leaf!" said the
child. "Look<br>
 at her head!" and she laughingly mimicked the Baroness'
palsy.</p>

<p>The stove-fitter, who had run after the girl, came to the
carriage<br>
 door.</p>

<p>"Take her away!" said Adeline. The man put his arms round
Atala and<br>
 fairly carried her off.</p>

<p>"Thanks for such a sacrifice, my dearest," said Adeline,
taking the<br>
 Baron's hand and clutching it with delirious joy. "How much you
are<br>
 altered! you must have suffered so much! What a surprise for
Hortense<br>
 and for your son!"</p>

<p>Adeline talked as lovers talk who meet after a long absence,
of a<br>
 hundred things at once.</p>

<p>In ten minutes the Baron and his wife reached the Rue
Louis-le-Grand,<br>
 and there Adeline found this note awaiting her:--</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"MADAME LA BARONNE,--</p>

<p>"Monsieur le Baron Hulot d'Ervy lived for one month in the Rue
de<br>
 Charonne under the name of Thorec, an anagram of Hector. He is
now<br>
 in the Passage du Soleil by the name of Vyder. He says he is
an<br>
 Alsatian, and does writing, and he lives with a girl named
Atala<br>
 Judici. Be very cautious, madame, for search is on foot; the
Baron<br>
 is wanted, on what score I know not.</p>

<p>"The actress has kept her word, and remains, as ever,</p>

<p>"Madame la Baronne, your humble servant,<br>
 "J. M."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
 The Baron's return was hailed with such joy as reconciled him
to<br>
 domestic life. He forgot little Atala Judici, for excesses
of<br>
 profligacy had reduced him to the volatility of feeling that
is<br>
 characteristic of childhood. But the happiness of the family
was<br>
 dashed by the change that had come over him. He had been still
hale<br>
 when he had gone away from his home; he had come back almost
a<br>
 hundred, broken, bent, and his expression even debased.</p>

<p><br>
 A splendid dinner, improvised by Celestine, reminded the old man
of<br>
 the singer's banquets; he was dazzled by the splendor of his
home.</p>

<p>"A feast in honor of the return of the prodigal father?" said
he in a<br>
 murmur to Adeline.</p>

<p>"Hush!" said she, "all is forgotten."</p>

<p>"And Lisbeth?" he asked, not seeing the old maid.</p>

<p>"I am sorry to say that she is in bed," replied Hortense. "She
can<br>
 never get up, and we shall have the grief of losing her ere
long. She<br>
 hopes to see you after dinner."</p>

<p>At daybreak next morning Victorin Hulot was informed by the
porter's<br>
 wife that soldiers of the municipal guard were posted all round
the<br>
 premises; the police demanded Baron Hulot. The bailiff, who
had<br>
 followed the woman, laid a summons in due form before the
lawyer, and<br>
 asked him whether he meant to pay his father's debts. The claim
was<br>
 for ten thousand francs at the suit of an usurer named Samanon,
who<br>
 had probably lent the Baron two or three thousand at most.
Victorin<br>
 desired the bailiff to dismiss his men, and paid.</p>

<p>"But is it the last?" he anxiously wondered.</p>

<p>Lisbeth, miserable already at seeing the family so prosperous,
could<br>
 not survive this happy event. She grew so rapidly worse that
Bianchon<br>
 gave her but a week to live, conquered at last in the long
struggle in<br>
 which she had scored so many victories.</p>

<p>She kept the secret of her hatred even through a painful death
from<br>
 pulmonary consumption. And, indeed, she had the supreme
satisfaction<br>
 of seeing Adeline, Hortense, Hulot, Victorin, Steinbock,
Celestine,<br>
 and their children standing in tears round her bed and mourning
for<br>
 her as the angel of the family.</p>

<p>Baron Hulot, enjoying a course of solid food such as he had
not known<br>
 for nearly three years, recovered flesh and strength, and was
almost<br>
 himself again. This improvement was such a joy to Adeline that
her<br>
 nervous trembling perceptibly diminished.</p>

<p>"She will be happy after all," said Lisbeth to herself on the
day<br>
 before she died, as she saw the veneration with which the
Baron<br>
 regarded his wife, of whose sufferings he had heard from
Hortense and<br>
 Victorin.</p>

<p>And vindictiveness hastened Cousin Betty's end. The family
followed<br>
 her, weeping, to the grave.</p>

<p>The Baron and Baroness, having reached the age which looks for
perfect<br>
 rest, gave up the handsome rooms on the first floor to the Count
and<br>
 Countess Steinbock, and took those above. The Baron by his
son's<br>
 exertions found an official position in the management of a
railroad,<br>
 in 1845, with a salary of six thousand francs, which, added to
the six<br>
 thousand of his pension and the money left to him by Madame
Crevel,<br>
 secured him an income of twenty-four thousand francs. Hortense
having<br>
 enjoyed her independent income during the three years of
separation<br>
 from Wenceslas, Victorin now invested the two hundred thousand
francs<br>
 he had in trust, in his sister's name and he allowed her
twelve<br>
 thousand francs.</p>

<p>Wenceslas, as the husband of a rich woman, was not unfaithful,
but he<br>
 was an idler; he could not make up his mind to begin any work,
however<br>
 trifling. Once more he became the artist <i>in partibus</i>; he
was popular<br>
 in society, and consulted by amateurs; in short, he became a
critic,<br>
 like all the feeble folk who fall below their promise.</p>

<p>Thus each household, though living as one family, had its own
fortune.<br>
 The Baroness, taught by bitter experience, left the management
of<br>
 matters to her son, and the Baron was thus reduced to his
salary, in<br>
 hope that the smallness of his income would prevent his
relapsing into<br>
 mischief. And by some singular good fortune, on which neither
the<br>
 mother nor the son had reckoned, Hulot seemed to have foresworn
the<br>
 fair sex. His subdued behaviour, ascribed to the course of
nature, so<br>
 completely reassured the family, that they enjoyed to the full
his<br>
 recovered amiability and delightful qualities. He was
unfailingly<br>
 attentive to his wife and children, escorted them to the
play,<br>
 reappeared in society, and did the honors to his son's house
with<br>
 exquisite grace. In short, this reclaimed prodigal was the joy
of his<br>
 family.</p>

<p>He was a most agreeable old man, a ruin, but full of wit,
having<br>
 retained no more of his vice than made it an added social
grace.</p>

<p>Of course, everybody was quite satisfied and easy. The young
people<br>
 and the Baroness lauded the model father to the skies,
forgetting the<br>
 death of the two uncles. Life cannot go on without much
forgetting!</p>

<p>Madame Victorin, who managed this enormous household with
great skill,<br>
 due, no doubt, to Lisbeth's training, had found it necessary to
have a<br>
 man-cook. This again necessitated a kitchen-maid. Kitchen-maids
are in<br>
 these days ambitious creatures, eager to detect the
<i>chef's</i> secrets,<br>
 and to become cooks as soon as they have learnt to stir a
sauce.<br>
 Consequently, the kitchen-maid is liable to frequent change.</p>

<p>At the beginning of 1845 Celestine engaged as kitchen-maid a
sturdy<br>
 Normandy peasant come from Isigny--short-waisted, with strong
red<br>
 arms, a common face, as dull as an "occasional piece" at the
play, and<br>
 hardly to be persuaded out of wearing the classical linen cap
peculiar<br>
 to the women of Lower Normandy. This girl, as buxom as a
wet-nurse,<br>
 looked as if she would burst the blue cotton check in which
she<br>
 clothed her person. Her florid face might have been hewn out of
stone,<br>
 so hard were its tawny outlines.</p>

<p>Of course no attention was paid to the advent in the house of
this<br>
 girl, whose name was Agathe--an ordinary, wide-awake specimen,
such as<br>
 is daily imported from the provinces. Agathe had no attractions
for<br>
 the cook, her tongue was too rough, for she had served in a
suburban<br>
 inn, waiting on carters; and instead of making a conquest of her
chief<br>
 and winning from him the secrets of the high art of the kitchen,
she<br>
 was the object of his great contempt. The <i>chef's</i>
attentions were, in<br>
 fact, devoted to Louise, the Countess Steinbock's maid. The
country<br>
 girl, thinking herself ill-used, complained bitterly that she
was<br>
 always sent out of the way on some pretext when the <i>chef</i>
was<br>
 finishing a dish or putting the crowning touch to a sauce.</p>

<p>"I am out of luck," said she, "and I shall go to another
place."</p>

<p>And yet she stayed though she had twice given notice to
quit.</p>

<p>One night, Adeline, roused by some unusual noise, did not see
Hector<br>
 in the bed he occupied near hers; for they slept side by side in
two<br>
 beds, as beseemed an old couple. She lay awake an hour, but he
did not<br>
 return. Seized with a panic, fancying some tragic end had
overtaken<br>
 him--an apoplectic attack, perhaps--she went upstairs to the
floor<br>
 occupied by the servants, and then was attracted to the room
where<br>
 Agathe slept, partly by seeing a light below the door, and
partly by<br>
 the murmur of voices. She stood still in dismay on recognizing
the<br>
 voice of her husband, who, a victim to Agathe's charms, to
vanquish<br>
 this strapping wench's not disinterested resistance, went to
the<br>
 length of saying:</p>

<p>"My wife has not long to live, and if you like you may be a
Baroness."</p>

<p>Adeline gave a cry, dropped her candlestick, and fled.</p>

<p>Three days later the Baroness, who had received the last
sacraments,<br>
 was dying, surrounded by her weeping family.</p>

<p>Just before she died, she took her husband's hand and pressed
it,<br>
 murmuring in his ear:</p>

<p>"My dear, I had nothing left to give up to you but my life. In
a<br>
 minute or two you will be free, and can make another Baronne
Hulot."</p>

<p>And, rare sight, tears oozed from her dead eyes.</p>

<p>This desperateness of vice had vanquished the patience of the
angel,<br>
 who, on the brink of eternity, gave utterance to the only
reproach she<br>
 had ever spoken in her life.</p>

<p>The Baron left Paris three days after his wife's funeral.
Eleven<br>
 months after Victorin heard indirectly of his father's marriage
to<br>
 Mademoiselle Agathe Piquetard, solemnized at Isigny, on the
1st<br>
 February 1846.</p>

<p>"Parents may hinder their children's marriage, but children
cannot<br>
 interfere with the insane acts of their parents in their
second<br>
 childhood," said Maitre Hulot to Maitre Popinot, the second son
of the<br>
 Minister of Commerce, who was discussing this marriage.</p>

<p> </p>

<h3>ADDENDUM</h3>

<h4>The following personages appear in other stories of the Human
Comedy.</h4>

<p>Beauvisage, Phileas<br>
 The Member for Arcis</p>

<p>Berthier (Parisian notary)<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Bianchon, Horace<br>
 Father Goriot<br>
 The Atheist's Mass<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 The Commission in Lunacy<br>
 Lost Illusions<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 The Secrets of a Princess<br>
 The Government Clerks<br>
 Pierrette<br>
 A Study of Woman<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 Honorine<br>
 The Seamy Side of History<br>
 The Magic Skin<br>
 A Second Home<br>
 A Prince of Bohemia<br>
 Letters of Two Brides<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 The Imaginary Mistress<br>
 The Middle Classes<br>
 The Country Parson<br>
 In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following:<br>
 Another Study of Woman<br>
 La Grande Breteche</p>

<p>Bixiou, Jean-Jacques<br>
 The Purse<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 The Government Clerks<br>
 Modeste Mignon<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 The Firm of Nucingen<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 The Member for Arcis<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 A Man of Business<br>
 Gaudissart II.<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Braulard<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Bridau, Joseph<br>
 The Purse<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 A Start in Life<br>
 Modeste Mignon<br>
 Another Study of Woman<br>
 Pierre Grassou<br>
 Letters of Two Brides<br>
 The Member for Arcis</p>

<p>Brisetout, Heloise<br>
 Cousin Pons<br>
 The Middle Classes</p>

<p>Cadine, Jenny<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists<br>
 The Member for Arcis</p>

<p>Chanor<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Chocardelle, Mademoiselle<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 A Prince of Bohemia<br>
 A Man of Business<br>
 The Member for Arcis</p>

<p>Colleville, Flavie Minoret, Madame<br>
 The Government Clerks<br>
 The Middle Classes</p>

<p>Collin, Jacqueline<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Crevel, Celestin<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Esgrignon, Victurnien, Comte (then Marquis d')<br>
 Jealousies of a Country Town<br>
 Letters of Two Brides<br>
 A Man of Business<br>
 The Secrets of a Princess</p>

<p>Falcon, Jean<br>
 The Chouans<br>
 The Muse of the Department</p>

<p>Graff, Wolfgang<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Grassou, Pierre<br>
 Pierre Grassou<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 The Middle Classes<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Grindot<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 Lost Illusions<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 A Start in Life<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Middle Classes</p>

<p>Hannequin, Leopold<br>
 Albert Savarus<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Herouville, Duc d'<br>
 The Hated Son<br>
 Jealousies of a Country Town<br>
 Modeste Mignon</p>

<p>Hulot (Marshal)<br>
 The Chouans<br>
 The Muse of the Department</p>

<p>Hulot, Victorin<br>
 The Member for Arcis</p>

<p>La Bastie la Briere, Madame Ernest de<br>
 Modeste Mignon<br>
 The Member for Arcis</p>

<p>La Baudraye, Madame Polydore Milaud de<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 A Prince of Bohemia</p>

<p>La Chanterie, Baronne Henri le Chantre de<br>
 The Seamy Side of History</p>

<p>Laginski, Comte Adam Mitgislas<br>
 Another Study of Woman<br>
 The Imaginary Mistress</p>

<p>La Palferine, Comte de<br>
 A Prince of Bohemia<br>
 A Man of Business<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Imaginary Mistress</p>

<p>La Roche-Hugon, Martial de<br>
 Domestic Peace<br>
 The Peasantry<br>
 A Daughter of Eve<br>
 The Member for Arcis<br>
 The Middle Classes</p>

<p>Lebas, Joseph<br>
 At the Sign of the Cat and Racket<br>
 Cesar Birotteau</p>

<p>Lebas, Madame Joseph (Virginie)<br>
 At the Sign of the Cat and Racket<br>
 Cesar Birotteau</p>

<p>Lebas<br>
 The Muse of the Department</p>

<p>Lefebvre, Robert<br>
 The Gondreville Mystery</p>

<p>Lenoncourt-Givry, Duc de<br>
 Letters of Two Brides<br>
 The Member for Arcis</p>

<p>Lora, Leon de<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 A Start in Life<br>
 Pierre Grassou<br>
 Honorine<br>
 Beatrix</p>

<p>Lousteau, Etienne<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 A Daughter of Eve<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 A Prince of Bohemia<br>
 A Man of Business<br>
 The Middle Classes<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Massol<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 The Magic Skin<br>
 A Daughter of Eve<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Montauran, Marquis de (younger brother of Alphonse de)<br>
 The Chouans<br>
 The Seamy Side of History</p>

<p>Montcornet, Marechal, Comte de<br>
 Domestic Peace<br>
 Lost Illusions<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 The Peasantry<br>
 A Man of Business</p>

<p>Navarreins, Duc de<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 Colonel Chabert<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 The Thirteen<br>
 Jealousies of a Country Town<br>
 The Peasantry<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 The Country Parson<br>
 The Magic Skin<br>
 The Gondreville Mystery<br>
 The Secrets of a Princess</p>

<p>Nourrisson, Madame<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Nucingen, Baron Frederic de<br>
 The Firm of Nucingen<br>
 Father Goriot<br>
 Pierrette<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 Lost Illusions<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 Another Study of Woman<br>
 The Secrets of a Princess<br>
 A Man of Business<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Paz, Thaddee<br>
 The Imaginary Mistress</p>

<p>Popinot, Anselme<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 Gaudissart the Great<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Popinot, Madame Anselme<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 A Prince of Bohemia<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Popinot, Vicomte<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Rastignac, Eugene de<br>
 Father Goriot<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 The Ball at Sceaux<br>
 The Commission in Lunacy<br>
 A Study of Woman<br>
 Another Study of Woman<br>
 The Magic Skin<br>
 The Secrets of a Princess<br>
 A Daughter of Eve<br>
 The Gondreville Mystery<br>
 The Firm of Nucingen<br>
 The Member for Arcis<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Rivet, Achille<br>
 Cousin Pons</p>

<p>Rochefide, Marquis Arthur de<br>
 Beatrix</p>

<p>Ronceret, Madame Fabien du<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Samanon<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 The Government Clerks<br>
 A Man of Business</p>

<p>Sinet, Seraphine<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Steinbock, Count Wenceslas<br>
 The Imaginary Mistress</p>

<p>Stidmann<br>
 Modeste Mignon<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Member for Arcis<br>
 Cousin Pons<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Tillet, Ferdinand du<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 The Firm of Nucingen<br>
 The Middle Classes<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 Pierrette<br>
 Melmoth Reconciled<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 The Secrets of a Princess<br>
 A Daughter of Eve<br>
 The Member for Arcis<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Trailles, Comte Maxime de<br>
 Cesar Birotteau<br>
 Father Goriot<br>
 Gobseck<br>
 Ursule Mirouet<br>
 A Man of Business<br>
 The Member for Arcis<br>
 The Secrets of a Princess<br>
 The Member for Arcis<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Turquet, Marguerite<br>
 The Imaginary Mistress<br>
 The Muse of the Department<br>
 A Man of Business</p>

<p>Vauvinet<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>

<p>Vernisset, Victor de<br>
 The Seamy Side of History<br>
 Beatrix</p>

<p>Vernou, Felicien<br>
 A Bachelor's Establishment<br>
 Lost Illusions<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life<br>
 A Daughter of Eve</p>

<p>Vignon, Claude<br>
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris<br>
 A Daughter of Eve<br>
 Honorine<br>
 Beatrix<br>
 The Unconscious Humorists</p>


<pre>





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