“Monsieur le Ministre, I beg your pardon.  We are very poor.  I have nothing to live on but my pay, and I have two children, and the one that is coming will have been brought into the family by Monsieur le Baron.”

“What a villain he looks!” said the Prince, pointing to Marneffe and addressing Marshal Hulot.—­“No more of Sganarelle speeches,” he went on; “you will disgorge two hundred thousand francs, or be packed off to Algiers.”

“But, Monsieur le Ministre, you do not know my wife.  She has spent it all.  Monsieur le Baron asked six persons to dinner every evening.  —­Fifty thousand francs a year are spent in my house.”

“Leave the room!” said the Minister, in the formidable tones that had given the word to charge in battle.  “You will have notice of your transfer within two hours.  Go!”

“I prefer to send in my resignation,” said Marneffe insolently.  “For it is too much to be what I am already, and thrashed into the bargain.  That would not satisfy me at all.”

And he left the room.

“What an impudent scoundrel!” said the Prince.

Marshal Hulot, who had stood up throughout this scene, as pale as a corpse, studying his brother out of the corner of his eye, went up to the Prince, and took his hand, repeating: 

“In forty-eight hours the pecuniary mischief shall be repaired; but honor!—­Good-bye, Marshal.  It is the last shot that kills.  Yes, I shall die of it!” he said in his ear.

“What the devil brought you here this morning?” said the Prince, much moved.

“I came to see what can be done for his wife,” replied the Count, pointing to his brother.  “She is wanting bread—­especially now!”

“He has his pension.”

“It is pledged!”

“The Devil must possess such a man,” said the Prince, with a shrug.  “What philtre do those baggages give you to rob you of your wits?” he went on to Hulot d’Ervy.  “How could you—­you, who know the precise details with which in French offices everything is written down at full length, consuming reams of paper to certify to the receipt or outlay of a few centimes—­you, who have so often complained that a hundred signatures are needed for a mere trifle, to discharge a soldier, to buy a curry-comb—­how could you hope to conceal a theft for any length of time?  To say nothing of the newspapers, and the envious, and the people who would like to steal!—­those women must rob you of your common-sense!  Do they cover your eyes with walnut-shells? or are you yourself made of different stuff from us?—­You ought to have left the office as soon as you found that you were no longer a man, but a temperament.  If you have complicated your crime with such gross folly, you will end—­I will not say where——­”

“Promise me, Cottin, that you will do what you can for her,” said the Marshal, who heard nothing, and was still thinking of his sister-in-law.

“Depend on me!” said the Minister.