--he was not very ready to lend me the ten thousand francs I wanted to make up the sum for that villain Marneffe's boy. No, it is all up with me; I must throw myself at the Prince's feet, confess how matters stand, hear myself told that I am a low scoundrel, and take his broadside so as to go decently to the bottom."
"But, Hector, this is not merely ruin, it is disgrace," said Adeline.
"My poor uncle will kill himself. Only kill us--yourself and me; you have a right to do that, but do not be a murderer! Come, take courage; there must be some way out of it."
"Not one," said Hulot. "No one in the Government could find two hundred thousand francs, not if it were to save an Administration!--Oh, Napoleon! where art thou?"
"My uncle! poor man! Hector, he must not be allowed to kill himself in disgrace."
"There is one more chance," said he, "but a very remote one.--Yes, Crevel is at daggers drawn with his daughter.--He has plenty of money, he alone could--"
"Listen, Hector it will be better for your wife to perish than to leave our uncle to perish--and your brother--the honor of the family!" cried the Baroness, struck by a flash of light. "Yes, I can save you all.--Good God! what a degrading thought! How could it have occurred to me?"
She clasped her hands, dropped on her knees, and put up a prayer. On rising, she saw such a crazy expression of joy on her husband's face, that the diabolical suggestion returned, and then Adeline sank into a sort of idiotic melancholy.
"Go, my dear, at once to the War Office," said she, rousing herself from this torpor; "try to send out a commission; it must be done. Get round the Marshal. And on your return, at five o'clock, you will find --perhaps--yes! you shall find two hundred thousand francs. Your family, your honor as a man, as a State official, a Councillor of State, your honesty--your son--all shall be saved;--but your Adeline will be lost, and you will see her no more. Hector, my dear," said she, kneeling before him, clasping and kissing his hand, "give me your blessing! Say farewell."
It was so heart-rending that Hulot put his arms round his wife, raised her and kissed her, saying:
"I do not understand."
"If you did," said she, "I should die of shame, or I should not have the strength to carry out this last sacrifice."
"Breakfast is served," said Mariette.
Hortense came in to wish her parents good-morning. They had to go to breakfast and assume a false face.
"Begin without me; I will join you," said the Baroness.
She sat down to her desk and wrote as follows:
"MY DEAR MONSIEUR CREVEL,--I have to ask a service of you; I shall expect you this morning, and I count on your gallantry, which is well known to me, to save me from having too long to wait for you.
--Your faithful servant, "ADELINE HULOT."
"Louise," said she to her daughter's maid, who waited on her, "take this note down to the porter and desire him to carry it at once to this address and wait for an answer."
The Baron, who was reading the news, held out a Republican paper to his wife, pointing to an article, and saying:
"Is there time?"
This was the paragraph, one of the terrible "notes" with which the papers spice their political bread and butter:--"A correspondent in Algiers writes that such abuses have been discovered in the commissariate transactions of the province of Oran, that the Law is ****** inquiries. The peculation is self-evident, and the guilty persons are known. If severe measures are not taken, we shall continue to lose more men through the extortion that limits their rations than by Arab steel or the fierce heat of the climate. We await further information before enlarging on this deplorable business. We need no longer wonder at the terror caused by the establishment of the Press in Africa, as was contemplated by the Charter of 1830."
"I will dress and go to the Minister," said the Baron, as they rose from table. "Time is precious; a man's life hangs on every minute."
"Oh, mamma, there is no hope for me!" cried Hortense. And unable to check her tears, she handed to her mother a number of the /Revue des Beaux Arts/.
Madame Hulot's eye fell on a print of the group of "Delilah" by Count Steinbock, under which were the words, "The property of Madame Marneffe."
The very first lines of the article, signed V., showed the talent and friendliness of Claude Vignon.
"Poor child!" said the Baroness.
Alarmed by her mother's tone of indifference, Hortense looked up, saw the expression of a sorrow before which her own paled, and rose to kiss her mother, saying:
"What is the matter, mamma? What is happening? Can we be more wretched than we are already?"
"My child, it seems to me that in what I am going through to-day my past dreadful sorrows are as nothing. When shall I have ceased to suffer?"
"In heaven, mother," said Hortense solemnly.
"Come, my angel, help me to dress.--No, no; I will not have you help me in this! Send me Louise."
Adeline, in her room, went to study herself in the glass. She looked at herself closely and sadly, wondering to herself:
"Am I still handsome? Can I still be desirable? Am I not wrinkled?"
She lifted up her fine golden hair, uncovering her temples; they were as fresh as a girl's. She went further; she uncovered her shoulders, and was satisfied; nay, she had a little feeling of pride. The beauty of really handsome shoulders is one of the last charms a woman loses, especially if she has lived chastely.
