“I am going mad!” cried the Brazilian, in a husky voice, dropping on to a sofa.  “I shall die of this!  But I must see, for it is impossible!  —­A lithographed note!  What is to assure me that it is not a forgery?  —­Baron Hulot was in love with Valerie?” said he, recalling Josepha’s harangue.  “Nay; the proof that he did not love is that she is still alive—­I will not leave her living for anybody else, if she is not wholly mine.”

Montes was terrible to behold.  He bellowed, he stormed; he broke everything he touched; rosewood was as brittle as glass.

“How he destroys things!” said Carabine, looking at the old woman.  “My good boy,” said she, giving the Brazilian a little slap, “Roland the Furious is very fine in a poem; but in a drawing-room he is prosaic and expensive.”

“My son,” said old Nourrisson, rising to stand in front of the crestfallen Baron, “I am of your way of thinking.  When you love in that way, and are joined ‘till death does you part,’ life must answer for love.  The one who first goes, carries everything away; it is a general wreck.  You command my esteem, my admiration, my consent, especially for your inoculation, which will make me a Friend of the Negro.—­But you love her!  You will hark back?”

“I?—­If she is so infamous, I—­”

“Well, come now, you are talking too much, it strikes me.  A man who means to be avenged, and who says he has the ways and means of a savage, doesn’t do that.—­If you want to see your ‘object’ in her paradise, you must take Cydalise and walk straight in with her on your arm, as if the servant had made a mistake.  But no scandal!  If you mean to be revenged, you must eat the leek, seem to be in despair, and allow her to bully you.—­Do you see?” said Madame Nourrisson, finding the Brazilian quite amazed by so subtle a scheme.

“All right, old ostrich,” he replied.  “Come along:  I understand.”

“Good-bye, little one!” said the old woman to Carabine.

She signed to Cydalise to go on with Montes, and remained a minute with Carabine.

“Now, child, I have but one fear, and that is that he will strangle her!  I should be in a very tight place; we must do everything gently.  I believe you have won your picture by Raphael; but they tell me it is only a Mignard.  Never mind, it is much prettier; all the Raphaels are gone black, I am told, whereas this one is as bright as a Girodet.”

“All I want is to crow over Josepha; and it is all the same to me whether I have a Mignard or a Raphael!—­That thief had on such pearls this evening!—­you would sell your soul for them.”

Cydalise, Montes, and Madame Nourrisson got into a hackney coach that was waiting at the door.  Madame Nourrisson whispered to the driver the address of a house in the same block as the Italian Opera House, which they could have reached in five or six minutes from the Rue Saint-Georges; but Madame Nourrisson desired the man to drive along the Rue le Peletier, and to go very slowly, so as to be able to examine the carriages in waiting.