ise, he said to himself
as he noted the bareness of the place (Crevel's word):

"Poor woman! She lives here like some fine picture stowed in a loft by a
man who knows nothing of painting."

Crevel, seeing Comte Popinot, the Minister of Commerce, buy pictures 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 m