“Yes.  But, dear me!  Madame Marneffe is giving a grand dinner; she hopes to get Monsieur Coquet to resign, and that is of the first importance.—­Now, Adeline, listen to me.  You know that I am fiercely proud as to my independence.  Your husband, my dear, will certainly bring you to ruin.  I fancied I could be of use to you all by living near this woman, but she is a creature of unfathomable depravity, and she will make your husband promise things which will bring you all to disgrace.”  Adeline writhed like a person stabbed to the heart.  “My dear Adeline, I am sure of what I say.  I feel it is my duty to enlighten you.—­Well, let us think of the future.  The Marshal is an old man, but he will last a long time yet—­he draws good pay; when he dies his widow would have a pension of six thousand francs.  On such an income I would undertake to maintain you all.  Use your influence over the good man to get him to marry me.  It is not for the sake of being Madame la Marechale; I value such nonsense at no more than I value Madame Marneffe’s conscience; but you will all have bread.  I see that Hortense must be wanting it, since you give her yours.”

The Marshal now came in; he had made such haste, that he was mopping his forehead with his bandana.

“I have given Mariette two thousand francs,” he whispered to his sister-in-law.

Adeline colored to the roots of her hair.  Two tears hung on the fringes of the still long lashes, and she silently pressed the old man’s hand; his beaming face expressed the glee of a favored lover.

“I intended to spend the money in a present for you, Adeline,” said he.  “Instead of repaying me, you must choose for yourself the thing you would like best.”

He took Lisbeth’s hand, which she held out to him, and so bewildered was he by his satisfaction, that he kissed it.

“That looks promising,” said Adeline to Lisbeth, smiling so far as she was able to smile.

The younger Hulot and his wife now came in.

“Is my brother coming to dinner?” asked the Marshal sharply.

Adeline took up a pencil and wrote these words on a scrap of paper: 

“I expect him; he promised this morning that he would be here; but if he should not come, it would be because the Marshal kept him.  He is overwhelmed with business.”

And she handed him the paper.  She had invented this way of conversing with Marshal Hulot, and kept a little collection of paper scraps and a pencil at hand on the work-table.

“I know,” said the Marshal, “he is worked very hard over the business in Algiers.”

At this moment, Hortense and Wenceslas arrived, and the Baroness, as she saw all her family about her, gave the Marshal a significant glance understood by none but Lisbeth.

Happiness had greatly improved the artist, who was adored by his wife and flattered by the world.  His face had become almost round, and his graceful figure did justice to the advantages which blood gives to men of birth.  His early fame, his important position, the delusive eulogies that the world sheds on artists as lightly as we say, “How d’ye do?” or discuss the weather, gave him that high sense of merit which degenerates into sheer fatuity when talent wanes.  The Cross of the Legion of Honor was the crowning stamp of the great man he believed himself to be.