She pushed forward an easy-chair for the Baroness and seated herself on a stool.  She discerned the faded beauty of the woman before her, and was filled with pity as she saw her shaken by the nervous palsy that, on the least excitement, became convulsive.  She could read at a glance the saintly life described to her of old by Hulot and Crevel; and she not only ceased to think of a contest with her, she humiliated herself before a superiority she appreciated.  The great artist could admire what the courtesan laughed to scorn.

“Mademoiselle, despair brought me here.  It reduces us to any means—­”

A look in Josepha’s face made the Baroness feel that she had wounded the woman from whom she hoped for so much, and she looked at her.  Her beseeching eyes extinguished the flash in Josepha’s; the singer smiled.  It was a wordless dialogue of pathetic eloquence.

“It is now two years and a half since Monsieur Hulot left his family, and I do not know where to find him, though I know that he lives in Paris,” said the Baroness with emotion.  “A dream suggested to me the idea—­an absurd one perhaps—­that you may have interested yourself in Monsieur Hulot.  If you could enable me to see him—­oh! mademoiselle, I would pray Heaven for you every day as long as I live in this world—­”

Two large tears in the singer’s eyes told what her reply would be.

“Madame,” said she, “I have done you an injury without knowing you; but, now that I have the happiness of seeing in you the most perfect virtue on earth, believe me I am sensible of the extent of my fault; I repent sincerely, and believe me, I will do all in my power to remedy it!”

She took Madame Hulot’s hand and before the lady could do anything to hinder her, she kissed it respectfully, even humbling herself to bend one knee.  Then she rose, as proud as when she stood on the stage in the part of Mathilde, and rang the bell.

“Go on horseback,” said she to the man-servant, “and kill the horse if you must, to find little Bijou, Rue Saint-Maur-du-Temple, and bring her here.  Put her into a coach and pay the coachman to come at a gallop.  Do not lose a moment—­or you lose your place.

“Madame,” she went on, coming back to the Baroness, and speaking to her in respectful tones, “you must forgive me.  As soon as the Duc d’Herouville became my protector, I dismissed the Baron, having heard that he was ruining his family for me.  What more could I do?  In an actress’ career a protector is indispensable from the first day of her appearance on the boards.  Our salaries do not pay half our expenses; we must have a temporary husband.  I did not value Monsieur Hulot, who took me away from a rich man, a conceited idiot.  Old Crevel would undoubtedly have married me—­”

“So he told me,” said the Baroness, interrupting her.

“Well, then, you see, madame, I might at this day have been an honest woman, with only one legitimate husband!”