“You see, Valerie, to what my adoration of you has brought me!  To crime—­domestic crime!”

“Oh!  I was wise never to marry!” cried Lisbeth, with savage joy.  “You are a kind, good man; Adeline is a perfect angel;—­and this is the reward of her blind devotion.”

“An elderly angel!” said Madame Marneffe softly, as she looked half tenderly, half mockingly, at her Hector, who was gazing at her as an examining judge gazes at the accused.

“My poor wife!” said Hulot.  “For more than nine months I have given her no money, though I find it for you, Valerie; but at what a cost!  No one else will ever love you so, and what torments you inflict on me in return!”

“Torments?” she echoed.  “Then what do you call happiness?”

“I do not yet know on what terms you have been with this so-called cousin whom you never mentioned to me,” said the Baron, paying no heed to Valerie’s interjection.  “But when he came in I felt as if a penknife had been stuck into my heart.  Blinded I may be, but I am not blind.  I could read his eyes, and yours.  In short, from under that ape’s eyelids there flashed sparks that he flung at you—­and your eyes!—­Oh! you have never looked at me so, never!  As to this mystery, Valerie, it shall all be cleared up.  You are the only woman who ever made me know the meaning of jealousy, so you need not be surprised by what I say.—­But another mystery which has rent its cloud, and it seems to me infamous——­”

“Go on, go on,” said Valerie.

“It is that Crevel, that square lump of flesh and stupidity, is in love with you, and that you accept his attentions with so good a grace that the idiot flaunts his passion before everybody.”

“Only three!  Can you discover no more?” asked Madame Marneffe.

“There may be more!” retorted the Baron.

“If Monsieur Crevel is in love with me, he is in his rights as a man after all; if I favored his passion, that would indeed be the act of a coquette, or of a woman who would leave much to be desired on your part.—­Well, love me as you find me, or let me alone.  If you restore me to freedom, neither you nor Monsieur Crevel will ever enter my doors again.  But I will take up with my cousin, just to keep my hand in, in those charming habits you suppose me to indulge.—­Good-bye, Monsieur le Baron Hulot.”

She rose, but the Baron took her by the arm and made her sit down again.  The old man could not do without Valerie.  She had become more imperatively indispensable to him than the necessaries of life; he preferred remaining in uncertainty to having any proof of Valerie’s infidelity.

“My dearest Valerie,” said he, “do you not see how miserable I am?  I only ask you to justify yourself.  Give me sufficient reasons—­”

“Well, go downstairs and wait for me; for I suppose you do not wish to look on at the various ceremonies required by your cousin’s state.”

Hulot slowly turned away.