Lisbeth went off to the Rue Plumet, where for some time she had been in the habit of going as one goes to the theatre, in order to indulge her emotions.
The dwelling selected by Hulot for his wife comprised a large, spacious hall, a drawing-room, a bedroom, and a dressing-room. The dining-room was off the drawing-room on one side. Two servants’ rooms and a kitchen on the third floor completed the accommodation, which was, however, not unworthy of a Councillor of State and a Director at the War Ministry. The house, the courtyard, and the staircase were imposing.
The Baroness, who had to furnish her drawing-room, her bedroom, and the dining-room with the relics of her splendour, had taken the best of the worn-out furniture from the house in the Rue de l’Université.
The poor woman was, moreover, attached to these dumb witnesses of her happiness; for her they had an almost consoling eloquence. In her memories, she caught glimpses of flowers, just as, on the carpets, she could see circles of roses which were barely visible to others.
As one entered the enormous hall where twelve chairs, a barometer, a big stove, and long white calico curtains bordered with red reminded one of the dreary waiting-rooms in government offices, one’s heart sank; one could feel the solitude in which this woman lived. Sorrow, like pleasure, creates an atmosphere of its own. At a first glance into any home, one knows whether love reigns there or despair. Adeline was to be found in a huge bedroom, furnished with beautiful Jacob Desmalters* furniture in speckled mahagony, with Empire ormolu ornaments that managed to look even colder than Louis XVI bronzes. And one shuddered at seeing this woman seated in a Roman armchair before her work-table decorated with sphinxes, her colour gone, affecting a show of cheerfulness, preserving her Imperial air as carefully as she did the blue velvet dress that she wore in the house. Her proud spirit sustained her body and maintained her beauty.
By the end of the first year of her exile in this apartment, the Baroness had measured the full extent of her misfortune. ‘Even though my Hector has banished me here, he has still given me a much better life then a simple peasant woman has any right to expect,’ she said to herself. ‘He wants me to live like this; his will be done! I am Baroness Hulot, the sister-in-law of a Marshal of France. I have led a blameless life, my two children are settled, I can wait for death wrapped in the immaculate veils of a virtuous wife, in the crape of my vanished happiness.’
Hulot’s portrait, in the uniform of a Commissary General of the Imperial Guard, painted by Robert Lefebvre* in 1810, hung above the work-table. When a visitor was announced, Adeline would put away in a drawer of the table a copy of the Imitation of Christ which she read constantly. This blameless Magdalen, too, listened to the voice of the Holy Spirit in her desert.
‘Mariette, my dear, how is my good Adeline?’ Lisbeth asked the cook who came to open the door for her.
‘Oh, she seems all right, Mademoiselle. But, between ourselves, if she persists in her ideas, she’ll kill herself,’ Mariette whispered to Lisbeth. ‘Really, you ought to make her promise to eat more. Yesterday, Madame told me to give her two sous’ worth of milk and a little roll in the morning, and for dinner either a herring or a little cold veal. She had a pound of veal cooked to last a week, for the days when she dines alone here, of course. She doesn’t want to spend more than ten sous a day on her food. That’s not sensible. If I were to tell Monsieur le Maréchal of this fine plan, he might quarrel with Monsieur le Baron and disinherit him. But you, on the other hand, are so kind and so clever, you’ll be able to put things right.’
‘Well, why don’t you talk to Monsieur le Baron?’ asked Lisbeth.
‘Oh, my dear Mademoiselle, it’s about three weeks since he was here, in fact all the time since we last saw you. Besides, Madame has forbidden me on pain of dismissal ever to ask Monsieur for money. But, as for troubles, oh, poor Madame has had plenty of them. It’s the first time Monsieur has neglected her for so long. Every time the bell rang, she used to rush to the window. But for the last five days she hasn’t left her chair. She spends her time reading. Whenever she goes to see Madame la Comtesse, she says to me, “Mariette,” she says, “if Monsieur comes, tell him I’m at home and send the porter to me. His errand will be well paid.”’
‘Poor cousin!’ said Bette. ‘Her situation breaks my heart. I speak of her to my cousin the Baron every day. What more can I do? He says, “You’re right, Bette. I’m a wretch. My wife’s an angel and I’m a monster. I’ll go tomorrow.” And he stays with Madame Marneffe. That woman is ruining him but he adores her. He feels alive only when he’s with her. I do what I can. If I weren’t there and if I hadn’t Mathurine with me, the Baron would have spent twice as much. And as he has almost nothing left, he might have blown his brains out already. Well, you know, Mariette, her husband’s death would kill Adeline; I’m sure of that. At least I try to make both ends meet there and to prevent my cousin getting through too much money.’
‘Oh, that’s what my poor mistress says. She’s well aware of how much she owes you,’ replied Mariette. ‘She was saying that for a long time she misjudged you.’
‘Oh!’ said Lisbeth. ‘Did she say anything else?’
‘No, Mademoiselle. If you want to give her pleasure, talk to her about Monsieur. She thinks you’re fortunate to see him every day.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘Beg pardon, Mademoiselle, the Marshal’s there. Oh, he comes every day and she always tells him that she has seen Monsieur that morning, that he comes home very late at night.’
‘And is there a good dinner today?’ asked Bette.
Mariette found it difficult to meet the peasant woman’s eye and she was hesitating to reply, when the drawing-room door opened and Marshal Hulot emerged in such a hurry that he bowed to Bette without looking at her and dropped some papers. Bette picked up the papers and ran to the stairs, for there was no point in calling after a deaf man. But she contrived not to overtake the Marshal, came back, and furtively read the following note, written in pencil:
‘My dear brother,—My husband has given me my allowance for the quarter, but my daughter Hortense needed it so badly that I have lent her the whole amount, which is barely enough to get her out of her difficulties. Can you lend me a few hundred francs? For I don’t want to ask for any more money. It would hurt me too much if he were to reproach me.’
‘Oh,’ thought Lisbeth, ‘to humble her pride to this extent, what a desperate situation she must be in!’