t, and refined! A beautiful soul, an angel--and with every
distinction, for her father was a Marshal of France----"

"A Marshal of France!" shrieked Crevel, positively bounding with
excitement. "Good Heavens! by the Holy Piper! By all the joys in
Paradise!--The rascal!--I beg your pardon, Cousin, I am going crazy!--I
think I would give a hundred thousand francs----"

"I dare say you would, and, I tell you, she is a respectable woman--a
woman of virtue. The Baron has forked out handsomely."

"He has not a sou, I tell you."

"There is a husband he has pushed----"

"Where did he push him?" asked Crevel, with a bitter laugh.

"He is promoted to be second in his office--this husband who will
oblige, no doubt;--and his name is down for the Cross of the Legion of
Honor."

"The Government ought to be judicious and respect those who have the
Cross by not flinging it broadcast," said Crevel, with the look of an
aggrieved politician. "But what is there about the man--that old bulldog
of a Baron?" he went on. "It seems to me that I am quite a match for
him," and he struck an attitude as he looked at himself in the glass.
"Heloise has told me many a time, at moments when a woman speaks the
truth, that I was wonderful."

"Oh," said Lisbeth, "women like big men; they are almost always
good-natured; and if I had to decide between you and the Baron, I should
choose you. Monsieur Hulot is amusing, handsome, and has a figure; but
you, you are substantial, and then--you see--you look an even greater
scamp than he does."

"It is incredible how all women, even pious women, take to men who have
that about them!" exclaimed Crevel, putting his arm round Lisbeth's
waist, he was so jubilant.

"The difficulty does not lie there," said Betty. "You must see that a
woman who is getting so many advantages will not be unfaithful to
her patron for nothing; and it would cost you more than a hundred odd
thousand francs, for our little friend can look forward to seeing her
husband at the head of his office within two years' time.--It is poverty
that is dragging the poor little angel into that pit."

Crevel was striding up and down the drawing-room in a state of frenzy.

"He must be uncommonly fond of the woman?" he inquired after a pause,
while his desires, thus goaded by Lisbeth, rose to a sort of madness.

"You may judge for yourself," replied Lisbeth. "I don't believe he has
had _that_ of her," said she, snapping her thumbnail against one