This sketch will suffice to give an idea, urbi et orbi, of clandestine passion in the squalid style stamped on it in Paris in 1840.  How far, alas! from the adulterous love, symbolized by Vulcan’s nets, three thousand years ago.

When Montes and Cydalise came upstairs, Valerie, standing before the fire, where a log was blazing, was allowing Wenceslas to lace her stays.

This is a moment when a woman who is neither too fat nor too thin, but like Valerie, elegant and slender, displays divine beauty.  The rosy skin, mostly soft, invites the sleepiest eye.  The lines of her figure, so little hidden, are so charmingly outlined by the white pleats of the shift and the support of the stays, that she is irresistible—­like everything that must be parted from.

With a happy face smiling at the glass, a foot impatiently marking time, a hand put up to restore order among the tumbled curls, and eyes expressive of gratitude; with the glow of satisfaction which, like a sunset, warms the least details of the countenance—­everything makes such a moment a mine of memories.

Any man who dares look back on the early errors of his life may, perhaps, recall some such reminiscences, and understand, though not excuse, the follies of Hulot and Crevel.  Women are so well aware of their power at such a moment, that they find in it what may be called the aftermath of the meeting.

“Come, come; after two years’ practice, you do not yet know how to lace a woman’s stays!  You are too much a Pole!—­There, it is ten o’clock, my Wenceslas!” said Valerie, laughing at him.

At this very moment, a mischievous waiting-woman, by inserting a knife, pushed up the hook of the double doors that formed the whole security of Adam and Eve.  She hastily pulled the door open—­for the servants of these dens have little time to waste—­and discovered one of the bewitching tableaux de genre which Gavarni has so often shown at the Salon.

“In here, madame,” said the girl; and Cydalise went in, followed by Montes.

“But there is some one here.—­Excuse me, madame,” said the country girl, in alarm.

“What?—­Why! it is Valerie!” cried Montes, violently slamming the door.

Madame Marneffe, too genuinely agitated to dissemble her feelings, dropped on to the chair by the fireplace.  Two tears rose to her eyes, and at once dried away.  She looked at Montes, saw the girl, and burst into a cackle of forced laughter.  The dignity of the insulted woman redeemed the scantiness of her attire; she walked close up to the Brazilian, and looked at him so defiantly that her eyes glittered like knives.

“So that,” said she, standing face to face with the Baron, and pointing to Cydalise—­“that is the other side of your fidelity?  You, who have made me promises that might convert a disbeliever in love!  You, for whom I have done so much—­have even committed crimes!—­You are right, monsieur, I am not to compare with a child of her age and of such beauty!