"You would have very little to do, my dear," said she, holding Hulot's hand and trembling so violently that it was as though she had a palsy, "very little to set things in order--"
She dared not proceed; she felt that every word would be a reproof, and she did not wish to mar the happiness with which this meeting was inundating her soul.
"It is Hortense who has brought me here," said Hulot. "That child may do us far more harm by her hasty proceeding than my absurd passion for Valerie has ever done. But we will discuss all this to-morrow morning.
Hortense is asleep, Mariette tells me; we will not disturb her."
"Yes," said Madame Hulot, suddenly plunged into the depths of grief.
She understood that the Baron's return was prompted not so much by the wish to see his family as by some ulterior interest.
"Leave her in peace till to-morrow," said the mother. "The poor child is in a deplorable condition; she has been crying all day."
At nine the next morning, the Baron, awaiting his daughter, whom he had sent for, was pacing the large, deserted drawing-room, trying to find arguments by which to conquer the most difficult form of obstinacy there is to deal with--that of a young wife, offended and implacable, as blameless youth ever is, in its ignorance of the disgraceful compromises of the world, of its passions and interests.
"Here I am, papa," said Hortense in a tremulous voice, and looking pale from her miseries.
Hulot, sitting down, took his daughter round the waist, and drew her down to sit on his knee.
"Well, my child," said he, kissing her forehead, "so there are troubles at home, and you have been hasty and headstrong? That is not like a well-bred child. My Hortense ought not to have taken such a decisive step as that of leaving her house and deserting her husband on her own account, and without consulting her parents. If my darling girl had come to see her kind and admirable mother, she would not have given me this cruel pain I feel!--You do not know the world; it is malignantly spiteful. People will perhaps say that your husband sent you back to your parents. Children brought up as you were, on your mother's lap, remain artless; maidenly passion like yours for Wenceslas, unfortunately, makes no allowances; it acts on every impulse. The little heart is moved, the head follows suit. You would burn down Paris to be revenged, with no thought of the courts of justice!
"When your old father tells you that you have outraged the proprieties, you may take his word for it.--I say nothing of the cruel pain you have given me. It is bitter, I assure you, for you throw all the blame on a woman of whose heart you know nothing, and whose hostility may become disastrous. And you, alas! so full of guileless innocence and purity, can have no suspicions; but you may be vilified and slandered.--Besides, my darling pet, you have taken a foolish jest too seriously. I can assure you, on my honor, that your husband is blameless. Madame Marneffe--"
So far the Baron, artistically diplomatic, had formulated his remonstrances very judiciously. He had, as may be observed, worked up to the mention of this name with superior skill; and yet Hortense, as she heard it, winced as if stung to the quick.
"Listen to me; I have had great experience, and I have seen much," he went on, stopping his daughter's attempt to speak. "That lady is very cold to your husband. Yes, you have been made the victim of a practical joke, and I will prove it to you. Yesterday Wenceslas was dining with her--"
"Dining with her!" cried the young wife, starting to her feet, and looking at her father with horror in every feature. "Yesterday! After having had my letter! Oh, great God!--Why did I not take the veil rather than marry? But now my life is not my own! I have the child!" and she sobbed.
Her weeping went to Madame Hulot's heart. She came out of her room and ran to her daughter, taking her in her arms, and asking her those questions, stupid with grief, which first rose to her lips.
"Now we have tears," said the Baron to himself, "and all was going so well! What is to be done with women who cry?"
"My child," said the Baroness, "listen to your father! He loves us all --come, come--"
"Come, Hortense, my dear little girl, cry no more, you make yourself too ugly!" said the Baron, "Now, be a little reasonable. Go sensibly home, and I promise you that Wenceslas shall never set foot in that woman's house. I ask you to make the sacrifice, if it is a sacrifice to forgive the husband you love so small a fault. I ask you--for the sake of my gray hairs, and of the love you owe your mother. You do not want to blight my later years with bitterness and regret?"
Hortense fell at her father's feet like a crazed thing, with the vehemence of despair; her hair, loosely pinned up, fell about her, and she held out her hands with an expression that painted her misery.
"Father," she said, "ask my life! Take it if you will, but at least take it pure and spotless, and I will yield it up gladly. Do not ask me to die in dishonor and crime. I am not at all like my husband; I cannot swallow an outrage. If I went back under my husband's roof, I should be capable of smothering him in a fit of jealousy--or of doing worse! Do no exact from me a thing that is beyond my powers. Do not have to mourn for me still living, for the least that can befall me is to go mad. I feel madness close upon me!
"Yesterday, yesterday, he could dine with that woman, after having read my letter?--Are other men made so? My life I give you, but do not let my death be ignominious!--His fault?--A small one! When he has a child by that woman!"
"A child!" cried Hulot, starting back a step or two. "Come. This is really some fooling."
At this juncture Victorin and Lisbeth arrived, and stood dumfounded at the scene. The daughter was prostrate at her father's feet. The Baroness, speechless between her maternal feelings and her conjugal duty, showed a harassed face bathed in tears.
