At half past ten, Crevel was going up Madame Marneffe’s staircase four steps at a time. He found the shameless creature, the adorable enchantress, wearing the smartest of morning-gowns, partaking of a nice, dainty breakfast in the company of Baron Henri Montès de Montéjanos and Lisbeth.
In spite of his shock at seeing the Brazilian, Crevel asked Madame Marneffe to give him two minutes in private. Valérie went into the drawing-room with Crevel.
‘Valérie, my angel,’ said the lovesick Crevel, ‘Monsieur Marneffe hasn’t long to live. If you’ll be faithful to me, when he dies we’ll get married. Think it over. I got rid of Hulot for you. So just consider whether that Brazilian can be worth a Mayor of Paris, a man who, for your sake, would aim to reach the highest office and who has already, an income of more than eighty thousand francs a year.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘I’ll be at the Rue du Dauphin at two o’clock and we’ll talk it over. But be sensible. And don’t forget the transfer of shares you promised me yesterday.’
She returned to the dining-room, followed by Crevel, who was flattering himself that he had found the way to have Valérie all to himself, when he caught sight of Baron Hulot, who, during this short interview, had come in with the same purpose in mind.
The Councillor of State, like Crevel, asked for a moment’s private conversation. Madame Marneffe got up to go back to the drawing-room, smiling at the Brazilian as if to say, ‘They’re mad. Can’t they see you?’
‘Valérie, my dear,’ said the Councillor of State, ‘this cousin is a cousin from America …’*
‘Oh, that’s enough!’ she cried, interrupting the Baron. ‘Marneffe never has been, never will be, never can be my husband. The first, the only man I’ve ever loved has come back, unexpectedly. It’s not my fault! But take a good look at Henri and then look at yourself. Then ask yourself if a woman can hesitate, especially when she’s in love. My dear, I’m not a kept woman. From today, I no longer intend to be like Susanna between two old men. If you care for me, you and Crevel will be our friends. But everything else is over between us, for I’m 26 years old and from now on I intend to be a saint, a woman of worth and dignity … like your wife.’
‘So that’s the situation, is it?’ said Hulot. ‘That’s how you welcome me, when I was coming like a pope with my hands full of indulgences! Well, your husband will, never be an office-manager or an Officer of the Legion of Honour.’
That remains to be seen!’ said Madame Marneffe, giving Hulot a significant look.
‘Don’t let’s quarrel,’ continued Hulot in despair. ‘I’ll come this evening and we’ll come to an understanding.’
‘In Lisbeth’s room, all right.’
‘Very well, in Lisbeth’s room,’ said the lovesick old man.
Hulot and Crevel went downstairs together without saying a word to each other till they reached the street. But on the pavement they looked at each other and began to laugh bitterly.
‘We’re two crazy old men,’ said Crevel.
I’ve got rid of them,’ Madame Marneffe said to Lisbeth as she sat down to table again. I’ve never loved, don’t love, and never shall love anyone but my jaguar,’ she added, smiling at Henri Montes. ‘Tisbeth, my dear, do you know, Henri has forgiven me all the shameful activities to which poverty reduced me.’
‘It’s my fault,’ said the Brazilian, ‘I ought to have sent you a hundred thousand francs.’
‘Poor boy!’ cried Valérie. ‘I ought to have worked for a living, but my fingers weren’t made for that. Ask Lisbeth.’
The Brazilian went away the happiest man in Paris.
About noon, Valérie and Lisbeth were chatting together in the magnificent bedroom where the dangerous Parisian was putting those finishing touches to her dress which a woman prefers to attend to herself.
Behind bolted doors and drawn door-curtains, Valérie related, down to the last detail, all the events of the previous evening and night and of that morning.
‘Are you pleased, my pet?’ she asked Lisbeth when she had finished her tale. ‘Which should I be, one day, Madame Crevel or Madame Montes? What do you think?’
‘Crevel hasn’t more than ten years to live, rake that he is,’ replied Lisbeth, ‘but Montes is young. Crevel will leave you an income of about thirty thousand francs. Let Montes wait. He’ll be happy enough as long as he remains the Benjamin. So, when you’re about 33, if you take care to keep your looks, you can marry your Brazilian and cut a fine figure with sixty thousand francs a year of your own, especially if you’re under the wing of a marshal’s wife.’
‘Yes, but Montes is a Brazilian. He’ll never get anywhere,’ remarked Valérie.
‘We live in an age of railways, when foreigners in France end up by occupying high positions,’ said Lisbeth.
‘We’ll see, when Marneffe’s dead,’ continued Valérie, ‘and he hasn’t long to suffer.’
‘These recurring attacks of illness are like the remorse of his physical being,’ said Lisbeth. ‘But now I’m going to see Hortense.’
‘Well, you go, my angel,’ replied Valérie, ‘and bring me my artist. To think that, in three years, I haven’t gained an inch of ground. That’s a disgrace to both of us. Wenceslas and Henri, those are my only two passions. One is love, the other is just a whim.’
‘How beautiful you look this morning,’ said Lisbeth, putting her arm round Valérie’s waist and kissing her on the forehead. ‘I enjoy all your pleasures, your money, your clothes. I only began to live on the day we became sisters.’
‘Wait a minute, my tigress,’ said Valérie, laughing. ‘Your shawl is askew…. After three years, you still don’t know how to wear a shawl, in spite of my lessons. Yet you want to be Madame la Maréchale Hulot!’