“Lisbeth is not come back.  I shall have to sing the song of Malbrouck,” said Hortense.  “I do long for some news of Wenceslas!  —­What does he live on?  He has not done a thing these two years.”

“Victorin saw him, he told me, with that horrible woman not long ago; and he fancied that she maintains him in idleness.—­If you only would, dear soul, you might bring your husband back to you yet.”

Hortense shook her head.

“Believe me,” Celestine went on, “the position will ere long be intolerable.  In the first instance, rage, despair, indignation, gave you strength.  The awful disasters that have come upon us since—­two deaths, ruin, and the disappearance of Baron Hulot—­have occupied your mind and heart; but now you live in peace and silence, you will find it hard to bear the void in your life; and as you cannot, and will never leave the path of virtue, you will have to be reconciled to Wenceslas.  Victorin, who loves you so much, is of that opinion.  There is something stronger than one’s feelings even, and that is Nature!”

“But such a mean creature!” cried the proud Hortense.  “He cares for that woman because she feeds him.—­And has she paid his debts, do you suppose?—­Good Heaven!  I think of that man’s position day and night!  He is the father of my child, and he is degrading himself.”

“But look at your mother, my dear,” said Celestine.

Celestine was one of those women who, when you have given them reasons enough to convince a Breton peasant, still go back for the hundredth time to their original argument.  The character of her face, somewhat flat, dull, and common, her light-brown hair in stiff, neat bands, her very complexion spoke of a sensible woman, devoid of charm, but also devoid of weakness.

“The Baroness would willingly go to join her husband in his disgrace, to comfort him and hide him in her heart from every eye,” Celestine went on.  “Why, she has a room made ready upstairs for Monsieur Hulot, as if she expected to find him and bring him home from one day to the next.”

“Oh yes, my mother is sublime!” replied Hortense.  “She has been so every minute of every day for six-and-twenty years; but I am not like her, it is not my nature.—­How can I help it?  I am angry with myself sometimes; but you do not know, Celestine, what it would be to make terms with infamy.”

“There is my father!” said Celestine placidly.  “He has certainly started on the road that ruined yours.  He is ten years younger than the Baron, to be sure, and was only a tradesman; but how can it end?  This Madame Marneffe has made a slave of my father; he is her dog; she is mistress of his fortune and his opinions, and nothing can open his eyes.  I tremble when I remember that their banns of marriage are already published!—­My husband means to make a last attempt; he thinks it a duty to try to avenge society and the family, and bring that woman to account for all her crimes.  Alas! my dear Hortense, such lofty souls as Victorin and hearts like ours come too late to a comprehension of the world and its ways!—­This is a secret, dear, and I have told you because you are interested in it, but never by a word or a look betray it to Lisbeth, or your mother, or anybody, for—­”