This state of things could not last; it was bound to end in some tremendous outbreak.  Marneffe was as much afraid of Hulot as Crevel was of Marneffe, for he was anxious not to die a mere clerk.  Men marked for death believe in life as galley-slaves believe in liberty; this man was bent on being a first-class clerk at any cost.  Thoroughly frightened by the pantomime of the Baron and Crevel, he rose, said a few words in his wife’s ear, and then, to the surprise of all, Valerie went into the adjoining bedroom with the Brazilian and her husband.

“Did Madame Marneffe ever speak to you of this cousin of hers?” said Crevel to Hulot.

“Never!” replied the Baron, getting up.  “That is enough for this evening,” said he.  “I have lost two louis—­there they are.”

He threw the two gold pieces on the table, and seated himself on the sofa with a look which everybody else took as a hint to go.  Monsieur and Madame Coquet, after exchanging a few words, left the room, and Claude Vignon, in despair, followed their example.  These two departures were a hint to less intelligent persons, who now found that they were not wanted.  The Baron and Crevel were left together, and spoke never a word.  Hulot, at last, ignoring Crevel, went on tiptoe to listen at the bedroom door; but he bounded back with a prodigious jump, for Marneffe opened the door and appeared with a calm face, astonished to find only the two men.

“And the tea?” said he.

“Where is Valerie?” replied the Baron in a rage.

“My wife,” said Marneffe.  “She is gone upstairs to speak to mademoiselle your cousin.  She will come down directly.”

“And why has she deserted us for that stupid creature?”

“Well,” said Marneffe, “Mademoiselle Lisbeth came back from dining with the Baroness with an attack of indigestion and Mathurine asked Valerie for some tea for her, so my wife went up to see what was the matter.”

“And her cousin?”

“He is gone.”

“Do you really believe that?” said the Baron.

“I have seen him to his carriage,” replied Marneffe, with a hideous smirk.

The wheels of a departing carriage were audible in the street.  The Baron, counting Marneffe for nothing, went upstairs to Lisbeth.  An idea flashed through him such as the heart sends to the brain when it is on fire with jealousy.  Marneffe’s baseness was so well known to him, that he could imagine the most degrading connivance between husband and wife.

“What has become of all the ladies and gentlemen?” said Marneffe, finding himself alone with Crevel.

“When the sun goes to bed, the cocks and hens follow suit,” said Crevel.  “Madame Marneffe disappeared, and her adorers departed.  Will you play a game of piquet?” added Crevel, who meant to remain.

He too believed that the Brazilian was in the house.

Monsieur Marneffe agreed.  The Mayor was a match for the Baron.  Simply by playing cards with the husband he could stay on indefinitely; and Marneffe, since the suppression of the public tables, was quite satisfied with the more limited opportunities of private play.