you know, another second of December, and good Louis, the nephew of Napoleon—­if he was his nephew, and not in reality of entirely different extraction—­was firing grape and canister at the Parisian mob.  Oh well, let him be forgiven for that; he was just the man to do it, and I hold to the theory that every man fares exactly as well and as ill as he deserves.  But when he later lost all appreciation and in the year seventy, without any provocation, was determined to have a bout with us, you see, Baron, that was—­well, what shall I say?—­that was a piece of insolence.  But he was repaid for it in his own coin.  Our Ancient of Days up there is not to be trifled with and He is on our side.”

“Yes,” said Innstetten, who was wise enough to appear to be entering seriously into such Philistine discussions, “the hero and conqueror of Saarbruecken did not know what he was doing.  But you must not be too strict in your judgment of him personally.  After all, who is master in his own house?  Nobody.  I myself am already making preparations to put the reins of government into other hands, and Louis Napoleon, you know, was simply a piece of wax in the hands of his Catholic wife, or let us say, rather, of his Jesuit wife.”

“Wax in the hands of his wife, who proceeded to bamboozle him.  Certainly, Innstetten, that is just what he was.  But you don’t think, do you, that that is going to save him?  He is forever condemned.  Moreover it has never yet been shown conclusively”—­at these words his glance sought rather timorously the eye of his better half—­“that petticoat government is not really to be considered an advantage.  Only, of course, it must be the right sort of a wife.  But who was this wife?  She was not a wife at all.  The most charitable thing to call her is a ‘dame,’ and that tells the whole story.  ‘Dame’ almost always leaves an after-taste.  This Eugenie—­whose relation to the Jewish banker I gladly ignore here, for I hate the ‘I-am-holier-than-thou’ attitude—­had a streak of the cafe-chantant in her, and, if the city in which she lived was a Babylon, she was a wife of Babylon.  I don’t care to express myself more plainly, for I know”—­and he bowed toward Effi—­“what I owe to German wives.  Your pardon, most gracious Lady, that I have so much as touched upon these things within your hearing.”

Such had been the trend of the conversation, after they had talked about the election, the assassin Nobiling, and the rape crop, and when Innstetten and Effi reached home they sat down to chat for half an hour.  The two housemaids were already in bed, for it was nearly midnight.

Innstetten put on his short house coat and morocco slippers, and began to walk up and down in the room; Effi was still dressed in her society gown, and her fan and gloves lay beside her.

“Now,” said Innstetten, standing still, “we really ought to celebrate this day, but I don’t know as yet how.  Shall I play you a triumphal march, or set the shark going out there, or carry you in triumph across the hall?  Something must be done, for I would have you know, this visit today was the last one.”