and statues, wanted also to figure as a Maecenas of Paris, whose love
of Art consists in making good investments.

Adeline smiled graciously at Crevel, pointing to a chair facing her.

"Here I am, fair lady, at your command," said Crevel.

Monsieur the Mayor, a political personage, now wore black broadcloth.
His face, at the top of this solemn suit, shone like a full moon
rising above a mass of dark clouds. His shirt, buttoned with three
large pearls worth five hundred francs apiece, gave a great idea of
his thoracic capacity, and he was apt to say, "In me you see the
coming athlete of the tribune!" His enormous vulgar hands were encased
in yellow gloves even in the morning; his patent leather boots spoke
of the chocolate-colored coupe with one horse in which he drove.

In the course of three years ambition had altered Crevel's
pretensions. Like all great artists, he had come to his second manner.
In the great world, when he went to the Prince de Wissembourg's, to
the Prefecture, to Comte Popinot's, and the like, he held his hat in
his hand in an airy manner taught him by Valerie, and he inserted the
thumb of the other hand in the armhole of his waistcoat with a knowing
air, and a simpering face and expression. This new grace of attitude
was due to the satirical inventiveness of Valerie, who, under pretence
of rejuvenating her mayor, had given him an added touch of the
ridiculous.

"I begged you to come, my dear kind Monsieur Crevel," said the
Baroness in a husky voice, "on a matter of the greatest importance--"

"I can guess what it is, madame," said Crevel, with a knowing air,
"but what you would ask is impossible.--Oh, I am not a brutal father,
a man--to use Napoleon's words--set hard and fast on sheer avarice.
Listen to me, fair lady. If my children were ruining themselves for
their own benefit, I would help them out of the scrape; but as for
backing your husband, madame? It is like trying to fill the vat of the
Danaides! Their house is mortgaged for three hundred thousand francs
for an incorrigible father! Why, they have nothing left, poor
wretches! And they have no fun for their money. All they have to live
upon is what Victorin may make in Court. He must wag his tongue more,
must monsieur your son! And he was to have been a Minister, that
learned youth! Our hope and pride. A pretty pilot, who runs aground
like a land-lubber; for if he had borrowed to enable him to get on, if
he had run into debt for feast