“It is that Crevel, that square lump of flesh and stupidity, is in love with you, and that you accept his attentions with so good a grace that the idiot flaunts his passion before everybody.” “Only three! Can you discover no more?” asked Madame Marneffe. “There may be more!” retorted the Baron. “If Monsieur Crevel is in love with me, he is in his rights as a man after all; if I favored his passion, that would indeed be the act of a coquette, or of a woman who would leave much to be desired on your part.--Well, love me as you find me, or let me alone. If you restore me to freedom, neither you nor Monsieur Crevel will ever enter my doors again. But I will take up with my cousin, just to keep my hand in, in those charming habits you suppose me to indulge.--Good-bye, Monsieur le Baron Hulot.” She rose, but the Baron took her by the arm and made her sit down again. The old man could not do without Valerie. She had become more imperatively indispensable to him than the necessaries of life; he preferred remaining in uncertainty to having any proof of Valerie’s infidelity. “My dearest Valerie,” said he, “do you not see how miserable I am? I only ask you to justify yourself. Give me sufficient reasons--” “Well, go downstairs and wait for me; for I suppose you do not wish to look on at the various ceremonies required by your cousin’s state.” Hulot slowly turned away. “You old profligate,” cried Lisbeth, “you have not even asked me how your children are? What are you going to do for Adeline? I, at any rate, will take her my savings to-morrow.” “You owe your wife white bread to eat at least,” said Madame Marneffe, smiling. The Baron, without taking offence at Lisbeth’s tone, as despotic as Josepha’s, got out of the room, only too glad to escape so importunate a question. The door bolted once more, the Brazilian came out of the dressing-closet, where he had been waiting, and he appeared with his eyes full of tears, in a really pitiable condition. Montes had heard everything. “Henri, you must have ceased to love me, I know it!” said Madame Marneffe, hiding her face in her handkerchief and bursting into tears. It was the outcry of real affection. The cry of a woman’s despair is so convincing that it wins the forgiveness that lurks at the bottom of every lover’s heart--when she is young and pretty, and wears a gown so low that she could slip out at the top and stand in the garb of Eve. “But why, if you love me, do you not leave everything for my sake?” asked the Brazilian. This South American born, being logical, as men are who have lived the life of nature, at once resumed the conversation at the point where it had been broken off, putting his arm round Valerie’s waist.