Mademoiselle Olympe Bijou, a child of sixteen, had the exquisite face which Raphael drew for his Virgins; eyes of pathetic innocence, weary with overwork—­black eyes, with long lashes, their moisture parched with the heat of laborious nights, and darkened with fatigue; a complexion like porcelain, almost too delicate; a mouth like a partly opened pomegranate; a heaving bosom, a full figure, pretty hands, the whitest teeth, and a mass of black hair; and the whole meagrely set off by a cotton frock at seventy-five centimes the metre, leather shoes without heels, and the cheapest gloves.  The girl, all unconscious of her charms, had put on her best frock to wait on the fine lady.

The Baron, gripped again by the clutch of profligacy, felt all his life concentrated in his eyes.  He forgot everything on beholding this delightful creature.  He was like a sportsman in sight of the game; if an emperor were present, he must take aim!

“And warranted sound,” said Josepha in his ear.  “An honest child, and wanting bread.  This is Paris—­I have been there!”

“It is a bargain,” replied the old man, getting up and rubbing his hands.

When Olympe Bijou was gone, Josepha looked mischievously at the Baron.

“If you want things to keep straight, Daddy,” said she, “be as firm as the Public Prosecutor on the bench.  Keep a tight hand on her, be a Bartholo!  Ware Auguste, Hippolyte, Nestor, Victor—­or, that is gold, in every form.  When once the child is fed and dressed, if she gets the upper hand, she will drive you like a serf.—­I will see to settling you comfortably.  The Duke does the handsome; he will lend—­that is, give—­you ten thousand francs; and he deposits eight thousand with his notary, who will pay you six hundred francs every quarter, for I cannot trust you.—­Now, am I nice?”

“Adorable.”

Ten days after deserting his family, when they were gathered round Adeline, who seemed to be dying, as she said again and again, in a weak voice, “Where is he?” Hector, under the name of Thoul, was established in the Rue Saint-Maur, at the head of a business as embroiderer, under the name of Thoul and Bijou.

Victorin Hulot, under the overwhelming disasters of his family, had received the finishing touch which makes or mars the man.  He was perfection.  In the great storms of life we act like the captain of a ship who, under the stress of a hurricane, lightens the ship of its heaviest cargo.  The young lawyer lost his self-conscious pride, his too evident assertiveness, his arrogance as an orator and his political pretensions.  He was as a man what his wife was as a woman.  He made up his mind to make the best of his Celestine—­who certainly did not realize his dreams—­and was wise enough to estimate life at its true value by contenting himself in all things with the second best.  He vowed to fulfil his duties, so much had he been shocked by his father’s example.