The Baron had at first observed the strictest decorum; but his passion for Madame Marneffe had ere long become so vehement, so greedy, that he would never quit her if he could help it.  At first he dined there four times a week; then he thought it delightful to dine with her every day.  Six months after his daughter’s marriage he was paying her two thousand francs a month for his board.  Madame Marneffe invited any one her dear Baron wished to entertain.  The dinner was always arranged for six; he could bring in three unexpected guests.  Lisbeth’s economy enabled her to solve the extraordinary problem of keeping up the table in the best style for a thousand francs a month, giving the other thousand to Madame Marneffe.  Valerie’s dress being chiefly paid for by Crevel and the Baron, the two women saved another thousand francs a month on this.

And so this pure and innocent being had already accumulated a hundred and fifty thousand francs in savings.  She had capitalized her income and monthly bonus, and swelled the amount by enormous interest, due to Crevel’s liberality in allowing his “little Duchess” to invest her money in partnership with him in his financial operations.  Crevel had taught Valerie the slang and the procedure of the money market, and, like every Parisian woman, she had soon outstripped her master.  Lisbeth, who never spent a sou of her twelve hundred francs, whose rent and dress were given to her, and who never put her hand in her pocket, had likewise a small capital of five or six thousand francs, of which Crevel took fatherly care.

At the same time, two such lovers were a heavy burthen on Valerie.  On the day when this drama reopens, Valerie, spurred by one of those incidents which have the effect in life that the ringing of a bell has in inducing a swarm of bees to settle, went up to Lisbeth’s rooms to give vent to one of those comforting lamentations—­a sort of cigarette blown off from the tongue—­by which women alleviate the minor miseries of life.

“Oh, Lisbeth, my love, two hours of Crevel this morning!  It is crushing!  How I wish I could send you in my place!”

“That, unluckily, is impossible,” said Lisbeth, smiling.  “I shall die a maid.”

“Two old men lovers!  Really, I am ashamed sometimes!  If my poor mother could see me.”

“You are mistaking me for Crevel!” said Lisbeth.

“Tell me, my little Betty, do you not despise me?”

“Oh! if I had but been pretty, what adventures I would have had!” cried Lisbeth.  “That is your justification.”

“But you would have acted only at the dictates of your heart,” said Madame Marneffe, with a sigh.

“Pooh!  Marneffe is a dead man they have forgotten to bury,” replied Lisbeth.  “The Baron is as good as your husband; Crevel is your adorer; it seems to me that you are quite in order—­like every other married woman.”

“No, it is not that, dear, adorable thing; that is not where the shoe pinches; you do not choose to understand.”