Part 48 (1/2)

”So much so, that I always have it about me,” replied Hulot, feeling in his breast-pocket for the little pocketbook which he always kept there.

”Leave your pocketbook where it is,” said the man, as crus.h.i.+ng as a thunder-clap. ”Here is the letter.--I now know all I want to know.

Madame Marneffe, of course, was aware of what that pocketbook contained?”

”She alone in the world.”

”So I supposed.--Now for the proof you asked for of her collusion with her husband.”

”Let us hear!” said the Baron, still incredulous.

”When we came in here, Monsieur le Baron, that wretched creature Marneffe led the way, and he took up this letter, which his wife, no doubt, had placed on this writing-table,” and he pointed to the _bonheur-du-jour_. ”That evidently was the spot agreed upon by the couple, in case she should succeed in stealing the letter while you were asleep; for this letter, as written to you by the lady, is, combined with those you wrote to her, decisive evidence in a police-court.”

He showed Hulot the note that Reine had delivered to him in his private room at the office.

”It is one of the doc.u.ments in the case,” said the police-agent; ”return it to me, monsieur.”

”Well, monsieur,” replied Hulot with bitter expression, ”that woman is profligacy itself in fixed ratios. I am certain at this moment that she has three lovers.”

”That is perfectly evident,” said the officer. ”Oh, they are not all on the streets! When a woman follows that trade in a carriage and a drawing-room, and her own house, it is not a case for francs and centimes, Monsieur le Baron. Mademoiselle Esther, of whom you spoke, and who poisoned herself, made away with millions.--If you will take my advice, you will get out of it, monsieur. This last little game will have cost you dear. That scoundrel of a husband has the law on his side.

And indeed, but for me, that little woman would have caught you again!”

”Thank you, monsieur,” said the Baron, trying to maintain his dignity.

”Now we will lock up; the farce is played out, and you can send your key to Monsieur the Mayor.”

Hulot went home in a state of dejection bordering on helplessness, and sunk in the gloomiest thoughts. He woke his n.o.ble and saintly wife, and poured into her heart the history of the past three years, sobbing like a child deprived of a toy. This confession from an old man young in feeling, this frightful and heart-rending narrative, while it filled Adeline with pity, also gave her the greatest joy; she thanked Heaven for this last catastrophe, for in fancy she saw the husband settled at last in the bosom of his family.

”Lisbeth was right,” said Madame Hulot gently and without any useless recrimination, ”she told us how it would be.”

”Yes. If only I had listened to her, instead of flying into a rage, that day when I wanted poor Hortense to go home rather than compromise the reputation of that--Oh! my dear Adeline, we must save Wenceslas. He is up to his chin in that mire!”

”My poor old man, the respectable middle-cla.s.ses have turned out no better than the actresses,” said Adeline, with a smile.

The Baroness was alarmed at the change in her Hector; when she saw him so unhappy, ailing, crushed under his weight of woes, she was all heart, all pity, all love; she would have shed her blood to make Hulot happy.

”Stay with us, my dear Hector. Tell me what is it that such women do to attract you so powerfully. I too will try. Why have you not taught me to be what you want? Am I deficient in intelligence? Men still think me handsome enough to court my favor.”

Many a married woman, attached to her duty and to her husband, may here pause to ask herself why strong and affectionate men, so tender-hearted to the Madame Marneffes, do not take their wives for the object of their fancies and pa.s.sions, especially wives like the Baronne Adeline Hulot.

This is, indeed, one of the most recondite mysteries of human nature.

Love, which is debauch of reason, the strong and austere joy of a lofty soul, and pleasure, the vulgar counterfeit sold in the market-place, are two aspects of the same thing. The woman who can satisfy both these devouring appet.i.tes is as rare in her s.e.x as a great general, a great writer, a great artist, a great inventor in a nation. A man of superior intellect or an idiot--a Hulot or a Crevel--equally crave for the ideal and for enjoyment; all alike go in search of the mysterious compound, so rare that at last it is usually found to be a work in two volumes. This craving is a depraved impulse due to society.

Marriage, no doubt, must be accepted as a tie; it is life, with its duties and its stern sacrifices on both parts equally. Libertines, who seek for hidden treasure, are as guilty as other evil-doers who are more hardly dealt with than they. These reflections are not a mere veneer of moralizing; they show the reason of many unexplained misfortunes. But, indeed, this drama points its own moral--or morals, for they are of many kinds.

The Baron presently went to call on the Marshal Prince de Wissembourg, whose powerful patronage was now his only chance. Having dwelt under his protection for five-and-thirty years, he was a visitor at all hours, and would be admitted to his rooms as soon as he was up.

”Ah! How are you, my dear Hector?” said the great and worthy leader.

”What is the matter? You look anxious. And yet the session is ended.

One more over! I speak of that now as I used to speak of a campaign.