To be a good woman and a prude to all the world, and a courtesan to her husband, is the gift of a woman of genius, and they are few. This is the secret of long fidelity, inexplicable to the women who are not blessed with the double and splendid faculty. Imagine Madame Marneffe virtuous, and you have the Marchesa di Pescara. But such lofty and illustrious women, beautiful as Diane de Poitiers, but virtuous, may be easily counted. So the scene with which this serious and terrible drama of Paris manners opened was about to be repeated, with this singular difference--that the calamities prophesied then by the captain of the municipal Militia had reversed the parts. Madame Hulot was awaiting Crevel with the same intentions as had brought him to her, smiling down at the Paris crowd from his _milord_, three years ago. And, strangest thing of all, the Baroness was true to herself and to her love, while preparing to yield to the grossest infidelity, such as the storm of passion even does not justify in the eyes of some judges. “What can I do to become a Madame Marneffe?” she asked herself as she heard the door-bell. She restrained her tears, fever gave brilliancy to her face, and she meant to be quite the courtesan, poor, noble soul. “What the devil can that worthy Baronne Hulot want of me?” Crevel wondered as he mounted the stairs. “She is going to discuss my quarrel with Celestine and Victorin, no doubt; but I will not give way!” As he went into the drawing-room, shown in by Louise, he said to himself as he noted the bareness of the place (Crevel’s word): “Poor woman! She lives here like some fine picture stowed in a loft by a man who knows nothing of painting.” Crevel, seeing Comte Popinot, the Minister of Commerce, buy pictures and statues, wanted also to figure as a Maecenas of Paris, whose love of Art consists in making good investments. Adeline smiled graciously at Crevel, pointing to a chair facing her. “Here I am, fair lady, at your command,” said Crevel. Monsieur the Mayor, a political personage, now wore black broadcloth. His face, at the top of this solemn suit, shone like a full moon rising above a mass of dark clouds. His shirt, buttoned with three large pearls worth five hundred francs apiece, gave a great idea of his thoracic capacity, and he was apt to say, “In me you see the coming athlete of the tribune!” His enormous vulgar hands were encased in yellow gloves even in the morning; his patent leather boots spoke of the chocolate-colored coupe with one horse in which he drove.