“When your old father tells you that you have outraged the proprieties, you may take his word for it.--I say nothing of the cruel pain you have given me. It is bitter, I assure you, for you throw all the blame on a woman of whose heart you know nothing, and whose hostility may become disastrous. And you, alas! so full of guileless innocence and purity, can have no suspicions; but you may be vilified and slandered.--Besides, my darling pet, you have taken a foolish jest too seriously. I can assure you, on my honor, that your husband is blameless. Madame Marneffe--” So far the Baron, artistically diplomatic, had formulated his remonstrances very judiciously. He had, as may be observed, worked up to the mention of this name with superior skill; and yet Hortense, as she heard it, winced as if stung to the quick. “Listen to me; I have had great experience, and I have seen much,” he went on, stopping his daughter’s attempt to speak. “That lady is very cold to your husband. Yes, you have been made the victim of a practical joke, and I will prove it to you. Yesterday Wenceslas was dining with her--” “Dining with her!” cried the young wife, starting to her feet, and looking at her father with horror in every feature. “Yesterday! After having had my letter! Oh, great God!--Why did I not take the veil rather than marry? But now my life is not my own! I have the child!” and she sobbed. Her weeping went to Madame Hulot’s heart. She came out of her room and ran to her daughter, taking her in her arms, and asking her those questions, stupid with grief, which first rose to her lips. “Now we have tears,” said the Baron to himself, “and all was going so well! What is to be done with women who cry?” “My child,” said the Baroness, “listen to your father! He loves us all--come, come--” “Come, Hortense, my dear little girl, cry no more, you make yourself too ugly!” said the Baron, “Now, be a little reasonable. Go sensibly home, and I promise you that Wenceslas shall never set foot in that woman’s house. I ask you to make the sacrifice, if it is a sacrifice to forgive the husband you love so small a fault. I ask you--for the sake of my gray hairs, and of the love you owe your mother. You do not want to blight my later years with bitterness and regret?” Hortense fell at her father’s feet like a crazed thing, with the vehemence of despair; her hair, loosely pinned up, fell about her, and she held out her hands with an expression that painted her misery.