Soon after Valentine had given birth to her daughter Andree, the novelist had again become a constant frequenter of the house in the Avenue d’Antin.  He was intent on resuming the little intrigue that he had begun there and felt confident of victory.  Valentine, on her side, after a period of terror followed by great relief, had set about making up for lost time, throwing herself more wildly than ever into the vortex of fashionable life.  She had recovered her good looks and youthfulness, and had never before experienced such a desire to divert herself, leaving her children more and more to the care of servants, and going about, hither and thither, as her fancy listed, particularly since her husband did the same in his sudden fits of jealousy and brutality, which broke out every now and again in the most imbecile fashion without the slightest cause.  It was the collapse of all family life, with the threat of a great disaster in the future; and Santerre lived there in the midst of it, helping on the work of destruction.

He gave a cry of rapture when Valentine at last made her appearance gowned in a delicious travelling dress, with a cavalier toque on her head.  But she was not quite ready, for she darted off again, saying that she would be at their service as soon as she had seen her little Andree, and given her last orders to the nurse.

“Well, make haste,” cried her husband.  “You are quite unbearable, you are never ready.”

It was at this moment that Mathieu called, and Seguin received him in order to express his regret that he could not that day go into business matters with him.  Nevertheless, before fixing another appointment, he was willing to take note of certain conditions which the other wished to stipulate for the purpose of reserving to himself the exclusive right of purchasing the remainder of the Chantebled estate in portions and at fixed dates.  Seguin was promising that he would carefully study this proposal when he was cut short by a sudden tumult—­distant shouts, wild hurrying to and fro, and a violent banging of doors.

“Why! what is it? what is it?” he muttered, turning towards the shaking walls.

The door suddenly opened and Valentine reappeared, distracted, red with fear and anger, and carrying her little Andree, who wailed and struggled in her arms.

“There, there, my pet,” gasped the mother, “don’t cry, she shan’t hurt you any more.  There, it’s nothing, darling; be quiet, do.”

Then she deposited the little girl in a large armchair, where she at once became quiet again.  She was a very pretty child, but still so puny, although nearly four months old, that there seemed to be nothing but her beautiful big eyes in her pale little face.

“Well, what is the matter?” asked Seguin, in astonishment.

“The matter, is, my friend, that I have just found Marie lying across the cradle as drunk as a market porter, and half stifling the child.  If I had been a few moments later it would have been all over.  Drunk at ten o’clock in the morning!  Can one understand such a thing?  I had noticed that she drank, and so I hid the liqueurs, for I hoped to be able to keep her, since her milk is so good.  But do you know what she had drunk?  Why, the methylated spirits for the warmer!  The empty bottle had remained beside her.”