"Woman is an inexplicable creature!" said Hulot. "I can explain her," said Crevel. "We are old; the Brazilian is young and handsome." "Yes; that, I own, is true," said Hulot; "we are older than we were. But, my dear fellow, how is one to do without these pretty creatures --seeing them undress, twist up their hair, smile cunningly through their fingers as they screw up their curl-papers, put on all their airs and graces, tell all their lies, declare that we don't love them when we are worried with business; and they cheer us in spite of everything." "Yes, by the Power! It is the only pleasure in life!" cried Crevel. "When a saucy little mug smiles at you and says, 'My old dear, you don't know how nice you are! I am not like other women, I suppose, who go crazy over mere boys with goats' beards, smelling of smoke, and as coarse as serving-men! For in their youth they are so insolent!--They come in and they bid you good-morning, and out they go.--I, whom you think such a flirt, I prefer a man of fifty to these brats. A man who will stick by me, who is devoted, who knows a woman is not to be picked up every day, and appreciates us.--That is what I love you for, you old monster!'--and they fill up these avowals with little pettings and prettinesses and--Faugh! they are as false as the bills on the Hotel de Ville." "A lie is sometimes better than the truth," said Hulot, remembering sundry bewitching scenes called up by Crevel, who mimicked Valerie. "They are obliged to act upon their lies, to sew spangles on their stage frocks--" "And they are ours, after all, the lying jades!" said Crevel coarsely. "Valerie is a witch," said the Baron. "She can turn an old man into a young one." "Oh, yes!" said Crevel, "she is an eel that wriggles through your hands; but the prettiest eel, as white and sweet as sugar, as amusing as Arnal--and ingenious!" "Yes, she is full of fun," said Hulot, who had now quite forgotten his wife. The colleagues went to bed the best friends in the world, reminding each other of Valerie's perfections, the tones of her voice, her kittenish way, her movements, her fun, her sallies of wit, and of affections; for she was an artist in love, and had charming impulses, as tenors may sing a scena better one day than another. And they fell asleep, cradled in tempting and diabolical visions lighted by the fires of hell. At nine o'clock next morning Hulot went off to the War Office, Crevel had business out of town; they left the house together, and Crevel held out his hand to the Baron, saying: "To show that there is no ill-feeling. For we, neither of us, will have anything more to say to Madame Marneffe?" "Oh, this is the end of everything," replied Hulot with a sort of horror.