ap, remain artless; maidenly passion like yours for
Wenceslas, unfortunately, makes no allowances; it acts on every
impulse. The little heart is moved, the head follows suit. You would
burn down Paris to be revenged, with no thought of the courts of
justice!

"When your old father tells you that you have outraged the
proprieties, you may take his word for it.--I say nothing of the cruel
pain you have given me. It is bitter, I assure you, for you throw all
the blame on a woman of whose heart you know nothing, and whose
hostility may become disastrous. And you, alas! so full of guileless
innocence and purity, can have no suspicions; but you may be vilified
and slandered.--Besides, my darling pet, you have taken a foolish jest
too seriously. I can assure you, on my honor, that your husband is
blameless. Madame Marneffe--"

So far the Baron, artistically diplomatic, had formulated his
remonstrances very judiciously. He had, as may be observed, worked up
to the mention of this name with superior skill; and yet Hortense, as
she heard it, winced as if stung to the quick.

"Listen to me; I have had great experience, and I have seen much," he
went on, stopping his daughter's attempt to speak. "That lady is very
cold to your husband. Yes, you have been made the victim of a
practical joke, and I will prove it to you. Yesterday Wenceslas was
dining with her--"

"Dining with her!" cried the young wife, starting to her feet, and
looking at her father with horror in every feature. "Yesterday! After
having had my letter! Oh, great God!--Why did I not take the veil
rather than marry? But now my life is not my own! I have the child!"
and she sobbed.

Her weeping went to Madame Hulot's heart. She came out of her room and
ran to her daughter, taking her in her arms, and asking her those
questions, stupid with grief, which first rose to her lips.

"Now we have tears," said the Baron to himself, "and all was going so
well! What is to be done with women who cry?"

"My child," said the Baroness, "listen to your father! He loves us all
--come, come--"

"Come, Hortense, my dear little girl, cry no more, you make yourself
too ugly!" said the Baron, "Now, be a little reasonable. Go sensibly
home, and I promise you that Wenceslas shall never set foot in that
woman's house. I ask you to make the sacrifice, if it is a sacrifice
to forgive the husband you love so small a fault. I ask you--for the
sake of my gray hairs, and of the love you o