On leaving Valerie, Hulot had gone down to the porter’s lodge and made a sudden invasion there.

“Madame Olivier?”

On hearing the imperious tone of this address, and seeing the action by which the Baron emphasized it, Madame Olivier came out into the courtyard as far as the Baron led her.

“You know that if any one can help your son to a connection by and by, it is I; it is owing to me that he is already third clerk in a notary’s office, and is finishing his studies.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Baron; and indeed, sir, you may depend on our gratitude.  Not a day passes that I do not pray to God for Monsieur le Baron’s happiness.”

“Not so many words, my good woman,” said Hulot, “but deeds——­”

“What can I do, sir?” asked Madame Olivier.

“A man came here to-night in a carriage.  Do you know him?”

Madame Olivier had recognized Montes well enough.  How could she have forgotten him?  In the Rue du Doyenne the Brazilian had always slipped a five-franc piece into her hand as he went out in the morning, rather too early.  If the Baron had applied to Monsieur Olivier, he would perhaps have learned all he wanted to know.  But Olivier was in bed.  In the lower orders the woman is not merely the superior of the man—­she almost always has the upper hand.  Madame Olivier had long since made up her mind as to which side to take in case of a collision between her two benefactors; she regarded Madame Marneffe as the stronger power.

“Do I know him?” she repeated.  “No, indeed, no.  I never saw him before!”

“What!  Did Madame Marneffe’s cousin never go to see her when she was living in the Rue du Doyenne?”

“Oh!  Was it her cousin?” cried Madame Olivier.  “I dare say he did come, but I did not know him again.  Next time, sir, I will look at him——­”

“He will be coming out,” said Hulot, hastily interrupting Madame Olivier.

“He has left,” said Madame Olivier, understanding the situation.  “The carriage is gone.”

“Did you see him go?”

“As plainly as I see you.  He told his servant to drive to the Embassy.”

This audacious statement wrung a sigh of relief from the Baron; he took Madame Olivier’s hand and squeezed it.

“Thank you, my good Madame Olivier.  But that is not all.—­Monsieur Crevel?”

“Monsieur Crevel?  What can you mean, sir?  I do not understand,” said Madame Olivier.

“Listen to me.  He is Madame Marneffe’s lover——­”

“Impossible, Monsieur le Baron; impossible,” said she, clasping her hands.

“He is Madame Marneffe’s lover,” the Baron repeated very positively.  “How do they manage it?  I don’t know; but I mean to know, and you are to find out.  If you can put me on the tracks of this intrigue, your son is a notary.”

“Don’t you fret yourself so, Monsieur le Baron,” said Madame Olivier.  “Madame cares for you, and for no one but you; her maid knows that for true, and we say, between her and me, that you are the luckiest man in this world—­for you know what madame is.—­Just perfection!