“My dear kind love, I do not know yet what is to be done.  I see nothing for it but flight.  I always delight in the country —­Brittany, Languedoc, what you will, so long as I am free to love you.  Poor dear, how I pity you!  Forced now to go back to your old Adeline, to that lachrymal urn—­for, as he no doubt told you, the monster means to watch me night and day; he spoke of a detective!  Do not come here, he is capable of anything I know, since he could make use of me for the basest purposes of speculation.  I only wish I could return you all the things I have received from your generosity.

  “Ah! my kind Hector, I may have flirted, and have seemed to you to
  be fickle, but you did not know your Valerie; she liked to tease
  you, but she loves you better than any one in the world.

“He cannot prevent your coming to see your cousin; I will arrange with her that we have speech with each other.  My dear old boy, write me just a line, pray, to comfort me in the absence of your dear self. (Oh, I would give one of my hands to have you by me on our sofa!) A letter will work like a charm; write me something full of your noble soul; I will return your note to you, for I must be cautious; I should not know where to hide it, he pokes his nose in everywhere.  In short, comfort your Valerie, your little wife, the mother of your child.—­To think of my having to write to you, when I used to see you every day.  As I say to Lisbeth, ’I did not know how happy I was.’  A thousand kisses, dear boy.  Be true to your

“VALERIE.”

“And tears!” said Hulot to himself as he finished this letter, “tears which have blotted out her name.—­How is she?” said he to Reine.

“Madame is in bed; she has dreadful spasms,” replied Reine.  “She had a fit of hysterics that twisted her like a withy round a faggot.  It came on after writing.  It comes of crying so much.  She heard monsieur’s voice on the stairs.”

The Baron in his distress wrote the following note on office paper with a printed heading:—­

“Be quite easy, my angel, he will die a second-class clerk!—­Your idea is admirable; we will go and live far from Paris, where we shall be happy with our little Hector; I will retire on my pension, and I shall be sure to find some good appointment on a railway.

“Ah, my sweet friend, I feel so much the younger for your letter!  I shall begin life again and make a fortune, you will see, for our dear little one.  As I read your letter, a thousand times more ardent than those of the Nouvelle Heloise, it worked a miracle!  I had not believed it possible that I could love you more.  This evening, at Lisbeth’s you will see

“YOUR HECTOR, FOR LIFE.”

Reine carried off this reply, the first letter the Baron had written to his “sweet friend.”  Such emotions to some extent counterbalanced the disasters growling in the distance; but the Baron, at this moment believing he could certainly avert the blows aimed at his uncle, Johann Fischer, thought only of the deficit.