His brow, bossy like that of a satyr, a sign of tenacity in his passions, was crowned by thick jet-black hair like a virgin forest, and under it flashed a pair of hazel eyes, so wild looking as to suggest that before his birth his mother must have been scared by a jaguar.

This fine specimen of the Portuguese race in Brazil took his stand with his back to the fire, in an attitude that showed familiarity with Paris manners; holding his hat in one hand, his elbow resting on the velvet-covered shelf, he bent over Madame Marneffe, talking to her in an undertone, and troubling himself very little about the dreadful people who, in his opinion, were so very much in the way.

This fashion of taking the stage, with the Brazilian’s attitude and expression, gave, alike to Crevel and to the baron, an identical shock of curiosity and anxiety.  Both were struck by the same impression and the same surmise.  And the manoeuvre suggested in each by their very genuine passion was so comical in its simultaneous results, that it made everybody smile who was sharp enough to read its meaning.  Crevel, a tradesman and shopkeeper to the backbone, though a mayor of Paris, unluckily, was a little slower to move than his rival partner, and this enabled the Baron to read at a glance Crevel’s involuntary self-betrayal.  This was a fresh arrow to rankle in the very amorous old man’s heart, and he resolved to have an explanation from Valerie.

“This evening,” said Crevel to himself too, as he sorted his hand, “I must know where I stand.”

“You have a heart!” cried Marneffe.  “You have just revoked.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Crevel, trying to withdraw his card.—­“This Baron seems to me very much in the way,” he went on, thinking to himself.  “If Valerie carries on with my Baron, well and good—­it is a means to my revenge, and I can get rid of him if I choose; but as for this cousin!—­He is one Baron too many; I do not mean to be made a fool of.  I will know how they are related.”

That evening, by one of those strokes of luck which come to pretty women, Valerie was charmingly dressed.  Her white bosom gleamed under a lace tucker of rusty white, which showed off the satin texture of her beautiful shoulders—­for Parisian women, Heaven knows how, have some way of preserving their fine flesh and remaining slender.  She wore a black velvet gown that looked as if it might at any moment slip off her shoulders, and her hair was dressed with lace and drooping flowers.  Her arms, not fat but dimpled, were graced by deep ruffles to her sleeves.  She was like a luscious fruit coquettishly served in a handsome dish, and making the knife-blade long to be cutting it.

“Valerie,” the Brazilian was saying in her ear, “I have come back faithful to you.  My uncle is dead; I am twice as rich as I was when I went away.  I mean to live and die in Paris, for you and with you.”

“Lower, Henri, I implore you——­”