Adeline, in her room, heard her husband throw himself on the sofa, like a lifeless mass; the noise was so peculiar that she fancied he had an apoplectic attack.  She looked through the door at the mirror, in such dread as stops the breath and hinders motion, and she saw her Hector in the attitude of a man crushed.  The Baroness stole in on tiptoe; Hector heard nothing; she went close up to him, saw the letter, took it, read it, trembling in every limb.  She went through one of those violent nervous shocks that leave their traces for ever on the sufferer.  Within a few days she became subject to a constant trembling, for after the first instant the need for action gave her such strength as can only be drawn from the very wellspring of the vital powers.

“Hector, come into my room,” said she, in a voice that was no more than a breath.  “Do not let your daughter see you in this state!  Come, my dear, come!”

“Two hundred thousand francs?  Where can I find them?  I can get Claude Vignon sent out there as commissioner.  He is a clever, intelligent fellow.—­That is a matter of a couple of days.—­But two hundred thousand francs!  My son has not so much; his house is loaded with mortgages for three hundred thousand.  My brother has saved thirty thousand francs at most.  Nucingen would simply laugh at me!—­Vauvinet? —­he was not very ready to lend me the ten thousand francs I wanted to make up the sum for that villain Marneffe’s boy.  No, it is all up with me; I must throw myself at the Prince’s feet, confess how matters stand, hear myself told that I am a low scoundrel, and take his broadside so as to go decently to the bottom.”

“But, Hector, this is not merely ruin, it is disgrace,” said Adeline.  “My poor uncle will kill himself.  Only kill us—­yourself and me; you have a right to do that, but do not be a murderer!  Come, take courage; there must be some way out of it.”

“Not one,” said Hulot.  “No one in the Government could find two hundred thousand francs, not if it were to save an Administration!  —­Oh, Napoleon! where art thou?”

“My uncle! poor man!  Hector, he must not be allowed to kill himself in disgrace.”

“There is one more chance,” said he, “but a very remote one.—­Yes, Crevel is at daggers drawn with his daughter.—­He has plenty of money, he alone could—­”

“Listen, Hector it will be better for your wife to perish than to leave our uncle to perish—­and your brother—­the honor of the family!” cried the Baroness, struck by a flash of light.  “Yes, I can save you all.—­Good God! what a degrading thought!  How could it have occurred to me?”

She clasped her hands, dropped on her knees, and put up a prayer.  On rising, she saw such a crazy expression of joy on her husband’s face, that the diabolical suggestion returned, and then Adeline sank into a sort of idiotic melancholy.