hand
in, in those charming habits you suppose me to indulge.--Good-bye,
Monsieur le Baron Hulot."

She rose, but the Baron took her by the arm and made her sit down
again. The old man could not do without Valerie. She had become more
imperatively indispensable to him than the necessaries of life; he
preferred remaining in uncertainty to having any proof of Valerie's
infidelity.

"My dearest Valerie," said he, "do you not see how miserable I am? I
only ask you to justify yourself. Give me sufficient reasons--"

"Well, go downstairs and wait for me; for I suppose you do not wish to
look on at the various ceremonies required by your cousin's state."

Hulot slowly turned away.

"You old profligate," cried Lisbeth, "you have not even asked me how
your children are? What are you going to do for Adeline? I, at any
rate, will take her my savings to-morrow."

"You owe your wife white bread to eat at least," said Madame Marneffe,
smiling.

The Baron, without taking offence at Lisbeth's tone, as despotic as
Josepha's, got out of the room, only too glad to escape so importunate
a question.

The door bolted once more, the Brazilian came out of the
dressing-closet, where he had been waiting, and he appeared with his
eyes full of tears, in a really pitiable condition. Montes had heard
everything.

"Henri, you must have ceased to love me, I know it!" said Madame
Marneffe, hiding her face in her handkerchief and bursting into tears.

It was the outcry of real affection. The cry of a woman's despair is
so convincing that it wins the forgiveness that lurks at the bottom of
every lover's heart--when she is young and pretty, and wears a gown so
low that she could slip out at the top and stand in the garb of Eve.

"But why, if you love me, do you not leave everything for my sake?"
asked the Brazilian.

This South American born, being logical, as men are who have lived the
life of nature, at once resumed the conversation at the point where it
had been broken off, putting his arm round Valerie's waist.

"Why?" she repeated, gazing up at Henri, whom she subjugated at once
by a look charged with passion, "why, my dear boy, I am married; we
are in Paris, not in the savannah, the pampas, the backwoods of
America.--My dear Henri, my first and only love, listen to me. That
husband of mine, a second clerk in the War Office, is bent on being a
head-clerk and officer of the Legion of Honor; can I help his being
ambitious? Now for