“But such a mean creature!” cried the proud Hortense. “He cares for that woman because she feeds him.--And has she paid his debts, do you suppose?--Good Heaven! I think of that man’s position day and night! He is the father of my child, and he is degrading himself.” “But look at your mother, my dear,” said Celestine. Celestine was one of those women who, when you have given them reasons enough to convince a Breton peasant, still go back for the hundredth time to their original argument. The character of her face, somewhat flat, dull, and common, her light-brown hair in stiff, neat bands, her very complexion spoke of a sensible woman, devoid of charm, but also devoid of weakness. “The Baroness would willingly go to join her husband in his disgrace, to comfort him and hide him in her heart from every eye,” Celestine went on. “Why, she has a room made ready upstairs for Monsieur Hulot, as if she expected to find him and bring him home from one day to the next.” “Oh yes, my mother is sublime!” replied Hortense. “She has been so every minute of every day for six-and-twenty years; but I am not like her, it is not my nature.--How can I help it? I am angry with myself sometimes; but you do not know, Celestine, what it would be to make terms with infamy.” “There is my father!” said Celestine placidly. “He has certainly started on the road that ruined yours. He is ten years younger than the Baron, to be sure, and was only a tradesman; but how can it end? This Madame Marneffe has made a slave of my father; he is her dog; she is mistress of his fortune and his opinions, and nothing can open his eyes. I tremble when I remember that their banns of marriage are already published!--My husband means to make a last attempt; he thinks it a duty to try to avenge society and the family, and bring that woman to account for all her crimes. Alas! my dear Hortense, such lofty souls as Victorin and hearts like ours come too late to a comprehension of the world and its ways!--This is a secret, dear, and I have told you because you are interested in it, but never by a word or a look betray it to Lisbeth, or your mother, or anybody, for--” “Here is Lisbeth!” said Hortense. “Well, cousin, and how is the Inferno of the Rue Barbet going on?” “Badly for you, my children.--Your husband, my dear Hortense, is more crazy about that woman than ever, and she, I must own, is madly in love with him.--Your father, dear Celestine, is gloriously blind. That, to be sure, is nothing; I have had occasion to see it once a fortnight; really, I am lucky never to have had anything to do with men, they are besotted creatures.--Five days hence you, dear child, and Victorin will have lost your father’s fortune.” “Then the banns are cried?” said Celestine.