“She alone in the world.”

“So I supposed.—­Now for the proof you asked for of her collusion with her husband.”

“Let us hear!” said the Baron, still incredulous.

“When we came in here, Monsieur le Baron, that wretched creature Marneffe led the way, and he took up this letter, which his wife, no doubt, had placed on this writing-table,” and he pointed to the bonheur-du-jour.  “That evidently was the spot agreed upon by the couple, in case she should succeed in stealing the letter while you were asleep; for this letter, as written to you by the lady, is, combined with those you wrote to her, decisive evidence in a police-court.”

He showed Hulot the note that Reine had delivered to him in his private room at the office.

“It is one of the documents in the case,” said the police-agent; “return it to me, monsieur.”

“Well, monsieur,” replied Hulot with bitter expression, “that woman is profligacy itself in fixed ratios.  I am certain at this moment that she has three lovers.”

“That is perfectly evident,” said the officer.  “Oh, they are not all on the streets!  When a woman follows that trade in a carriage and a drawing-room, and her own house, it is not a case for francs and centimes, Monsieur le Baron.  Mademoiselle Esther, of whom you spoke, and who poisoned herself, made away with millions.—­If you will take my advice, you will get out of it, monsieur.  This last little game will have cost you dear.  That scoundrel of a husband has the law on his side.  And indeed, but for me, that little woman would have caught you again!”

“Thank you, monsieur,” said the Baron, trying to maintain his dignity.

“Now we will lock up; the farce is played out, and you can send your key to Monsieur the Mayor.”

Hulot went home in a state of dejection bordering on helplessness, and sunk in the gloomiest thoughts.  He woke his noble and saintly wife, and poured into her heart the history of the past three years, sobbing like a child deprived of a toy.  This confession from an old man young in feeling, this frightful and heart-rending narrative, while it filled Adeline with pity, also gave her the greatest joy; she thanked Heaven for this last catastrophe, for in fancy she saw the husband settled at last in the bosom of his family.

“Lisbeth was right,” said Madame Hulot gently and without any useless recrimination, “she told us how it would be.”

“Yes.  If only I had listened to her, instead of flying into a rage, that day when I wanted poor Hortense to go home rather than compromise the reputation of that—­Oh! my dear Adeline, we must save Wenceslas.  He is up to his chin in that mire!”

“My poor old man, the respectable middle-classes have turned out no better than the actresses,” said Adeline, with a smile.

The Baroness was alarmed at the change in her Hector; when she saw him so unhappy, ailing, crushed under his weight of woes, she was all heart, all pity, all love; she would have shed her blood to make Hulot happy.