’Well, Madame, will I find such a treasure again at the age of 52? At that age, love costs thirty thousand francs a year. I have learned the figure through your husband, and, for my part, I am too fond of Célestine to ruin her. When I saw you at the first evening party you gave for us, I didn’t understand how that scoundrel Hulot could keep a Jenny Cadine. You had the bearing of an empress. You are not yet 30, Madame,’ he continued. ‘You look young to me, you are beautiful. On my word of honour, I was touched to the core that day. I said to myself, “If I didn’t have my Josépha, since Père Hulot neglects his wife, she would fit me like a glove.” (Oh, excuse me! That’s an expression from my former trade. The perfumer reappears from time to time. That’s what prevents me from aspiring to be a deputy.) So when I was deceived by the Baron in such an underhand way (for between old rascals like us, our friends’ mistresses should be sacred), I swore to myself that I would take his wife. It’s only fair. The Baron could say nothing and we would have nothing to fear. You showed me the door like a mangy dog the first time I mentioned the state of my heart to you. That redoubled my love, my obstinacy, if you like, and you will be mine.’
‘And how will that come about?’
‘I don’t know, but it will. You see, Madame, a silly old perfumer (retired!) who has only one idea in his head is stronger than a clever man who has thousands. I am crazy about you and you are my revenge! It’s as if I were in love twice over. I’m speaking to you frankly, as a man who has made up his mind. Just as you tell me, “I won’t be yours”, I am talking to you quite dispassionately. In short, as the saying goes, I am putting my cards on the table. Yes, you will be mine at the right moment. Oh, if you were 50, you would still be my mistress! And it will happen, for I, for my part, expect every assistance from your husband.’
Madame Hulot cast such a staring look of terror at the scheming tradesman that he thought she had gone mad and he stopped short.
‘You asked for it. You have covered me with your contempt. You have defied me. And so I’ve spoken out!’ he said, feeling the need to justify the brutality of his last words.
‘Oh, my daughter, my daughter!’ moaned the Baroness faintly.
‘Oh, nothing matters to me any more!’ Crevel continued. ‘The day Josépha was taken from me, I was like a tigress whose young have been removed. In short, I was in the state I see you in now. Your daughter! For me, she’s the means of obtaining you. Yes, I blocked your daughter’s marriage … and you won’t be able to arrange a marriage for her at all without my help! However beautiful Mademoiselle Hortense may be, she must have a dowry.’
‘Alas! Yes,’ said the Baroness, wiping her eyes.
‘Well, try asking the Baron for ten thousand francs,’ Crevel went on, taking up his pose again.
He waited a moment, like an actor who pauses after making his point.
‘If he had them, he would give them to Josépha’s successor,’ he said, pitching his voice on a higher note. ‘Does anyone stop on the path he is following? First of all, he’s too fond of women. (There’s a happy mean in everything, as our King* said.) And then, his vanity is involved. He’s a fine figure of a man. He’ll ruin you all for the sake of his pleasure. In any case you’re half-way to the poor-house already. Look, since I first set foot in your house, you haven’t been able to renew your drawing-room furniture. The word “hard-up” belches out from every rent in those hangings. What prospective son-in-law will leave the house without being appalled at the ill-disguised evidence of the most horrible kind of poverty, that of good families? I’ve been a shopkeeper. I know what I’m talking about. There’s nothing like the eye of a Paris tradesman for distinguishing between real and apparent wealth. You’re penniless,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That’s obvious in everything, even in your servant’s livery. Would you like me to reveal frightful mysteries which are concealed from you?’
‘Monsieur,’ said Madame Hulot, who was soaking her handkerchief with tears, ‘enough, enough!’
‘Well, my son-in-law gives his father money, and that’s what I was trying to tell you when I talked about your son’s expenditure at the beginning of our conversation. But I watch over my daughter’s interests; set your mind at ease.’
‘Oh, to see my daughter married and then to die!’ said the unhappy woman, beside herself.
‘Well, this is the way to do it,’ continued Crevel.
Madame Hulot gave Crevel a hopeful look, which changed her expression so quickly that this one movement ought to have softened his heart and made him give up his absurd scheme.