ng girl had come
to see her kind and admirable mother, she would not have given me
this cruel pain I feel!--You do not know the world; it is malignantly
spiteful. People will perhaps say that your husband sent you back to
your parents. Children brought up as you were, on your mother's
lap, 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,