“You have many excuses, mademoiselle,” said Adeline, “and God will take them into account.  But, for my part, far from reproaching you, I came, on the contrary, to make myself your debtor in gratitude—­”

“Madame, for nearly three years I have provided for Monsieur le Baron’s necessities—­”

“You?” interrupted the Baroness, with tears in her eyes.  “Oh, what can I do for you?  I can only pray—­”

“I and Monsieur le Duc d’Herouville,” the singer said, “a noble soul, a true gentleman—­” and Josepha related the settling and marriage of Monsieur Thoul.

“And so, thanks to you, mademoiselle, the Baron has wanted nothing?”

“We have done our best to that end, madame.”

“And where is he now?”

“About six months ago, Monsieur le Duc told me that the Baron, known to the notary by the name of Thoul, had drawn all the eight thousand francs that were to have been paid to him in fixed sums once a quarter,” replied Josepha.  “We have heard no more of the Baron, neither I nor Monsieur d’Herouville.  Our lives are so full, we artists are so busy, that I really have not time to run after old Thoul.  As it happens, for the last six months, Bijou, who works for me—­his—­what shall I say—?”

“His mistress,” said Madame Hulot.

“His mistress,” repeated Josepha, “has not been here.  Mademoiselle Olympe Bijou is perhaps divorced.  Divorce is common in the thirteenth arrondissement.”

Josepha rose, and foraging among the rare plants in her stands, made a charming bouquet for Madame Hulot, whose expectations, it may be said, were by no means fulfilled.  Like those worthy fold, who take men of genius to be a sort of monsters, eating, drinking, walking, and speaking unlike other people, the Baroness had hoped to see Josepha the opera singer, the witch, the amorous and amusing courtesan; she saw a calm and well-mannered woman, with the dignity of talent, the simplicity of an actress who knows herself to be at night a queen, and also, better than all, a woman of the town whose eyes, attitude, and demeanor paid full and ungrudging homage to the virtuous wife, the Mater dolorosa of the sacred hymn, and who was crowning her sorrows with flowers, as the Madonna is crowned in Italy.

“Madame,” said the man-servant, reappearing at the end of half an hour, “Madame Bijou is on her way, but you are not to expect little Olympe.  Your needle-woman, madame, is settled in life; she is married—­”

“More or less?” said Josepha.

“No, madame, really married.  She is at the head of a very fine business; she has married the owner of a large and fashionable shop, on which they have spent millions of francs, on the Boulevard des Italiens; and she has left the embroidery business to her sister and mother.  She is Madame Grenouville.  The fat tradesman—­”

“A Crevel?”

“Yes, madame,” said the man.  “Well, he has settled thirty thousand francs a year on Mademoiselle Bijou by the marriage articles.  And her elder sister, they say, is going to be married to a rich butcher.”