“Oh,” said Lisbeth, “women like big men; they are almost always good-natured; and if I had to decide between you and the Baron, I should choose you.  Monsieur Hulot is amusing, handsome, and has a figure; but you, you are substantial, and then—­you see—­you look an even greater scamp than he does.”

“It is incredible how all women, even pious women, take to men who have that about them!” exclaimed Crevel, putting his arm round Lisbeth’s waist, he was so jubilant.

“The difficulty does not lie there,” said Betty.  “You must see that a woman who is getting so many advantages will not be unfaithful to her patron for nothing; and it would cost you more than a hundred odd thousand francs, for our little friend can look forward to seeing her husband at the head of his office within two years’ time.—­It is poverty that is dragging the poor little angel into that pit.”

Crevel was striding up and down the drawing-room in a state of frenzy.

“He must be uncommonly fond of the woman?” he inquired after a pause, while his desires, thus goaded by Lisbeth, rose to a sort of madness.

“You may judge for yourself,” replied Lisbeth.  “I don’t believe he has had that of her,” said she, snapping her thumbnail against one of her enormous white teeth, “and he has given her ten thousand francs’ worth of presents already.”

“What a good joke it would be!” cried Crevel, “if I got to the winning post first!”

“Good heavens!  It is too bad of me to be telling you all this tittle-tattle,” said Lisbeth, with an air of compunction.

“No.—­I mean to put your relations to the blush.  To-morrow I shall invest in your name such a sum in five-per-cents as will give you six hundred francs a year; but then you must tell me everything—­his Dulcinea’s name and residence.  To you I will make a clean breast of it.—­I never have had a real lady for a mistress, and it is the height of my ambition.  Mahomet’s houris are nothing in comparison with what I fancy a woman of fashion must be.  In short, it is my dream, my mania, and to such a point, that I declare to you the Baroness Hulot to me will never be fifty,” said he, unconsciously plagiarizing one of the greatest wits of the last century.  “I assure you, my good Lisbeth, I am prepared to sacrifice a hundred, two hundred—­Hush!  Here are the young people, I see them crossing the courtyard.  I shall never have learned anything through you, I give you my word of honor; for I do not want you to lose the Baron’s confidence, quite the contrary.  He must be amazingly fond of this woman—­that old boy.”

“He is crazy about her,” said Lisbeth.  “He could not find forty thousand francs to marry his daughter off, but he has got them somehow for his new passion.”

“And do you think that she loves him?”

“At his age!” said the old maid.

“Oh, what an owl I am!” cried Crevel, “when I myself allowed Heloise to keep her artist exactly as Henri IX. allowed Gabrielle her Bellegrade.  Alas! old age, old age!—­Good-morning, Celestine.  How do, my jewel!—­And the brat?  Ah! here he comes; on my honor, he is beginning to be like me!—­Good-day, Hulot—­quite well?  We shall soon be having another wedding in the family.”