“I know what you are going to say,” she went on, looking at Wenceslas, whose undress was proof too clear to be denied.  “This is my concern.  If I could love you after such gross treachery—­for you have spied upon me, you have paid for every step up these stairs, paid the mistress of the house, and the servant, perhaps even Reine—­a noble deed!—­If I had any remnant of affection for such a mean wretch, I could give him reasons that would renew his passion!—­But I leave you, monsieur, to your doubts, which will become remorse.—­Wenceslas, my gown!”

She took her dress and put it on, looked at herself in the glass, and finished dressing without heeding the Baron, as calmly as if she had been alone in the room.

“Wenceslas, are you ready?—­Go first.”

She had been watching Montes in the glass and out of the corner of her eye, and fancied she could see in his pallor an indication of the weakness which delivers a strong man over to a woman’s fascinations; she now took his hand, going so close to him that he could not help inhaling the terrible perfumes which men love, and by which they intoxicate themselves; then, feeling his pulses beat high, she looked at him reproachfully.

“You have my full permission to go and tell your history to Monsieur Crevel; he will never believe you.  I have a perfect right to marry him, and he becomes my husband the day after to-morrow.—­I shall make him very happy.—­Good-bye; try to forget me.”

“Oh!  Valerie,” cried Henri Montes, clasping her in his arms, “that is impossible!—­Come to Brazil!”

Valerie looked in his face, and saw him her slave.

“Well, if you still love me, Henri, two years hence I will be your wife; but your expression at this moment strikes me as very suspicious.”

“I swear to you that they made me drink, that false friends threw this girl on my hands, and that the whole thing is the outcome of chance!” said Montes.

“Then I am to forgive you?” she asked, with a smile.

“But you will marry, all the same?” asked the Baron, in an agony of jealousy.

“Eighty thousand francs a year!” said she, with almost comical enthusiasm.  “And Crevel loves me so much that he will die of it!”

“Ah!  I understand,” said Montes.

“Well, then, in a few days we will come to an understanding,” said she.

And she departed triumphant.

“I have no scruples,” thought the Baron, standing transfixed for a few minutes.  “What!  That woman believes she can make use of his passion to be quit of that dolt, as she counted on Marneffe’s decease!—­I shall be the instrument of divine wrath.”

Two days later those of du Tillet’s guests who had demolished Madame Marneffe tooth and nail, were seated round her table an hour after she has shed her skin and changed her name for the illustrious name of a Paris mayor.  This verbal treason is one of the commonest forms of Parisian levity.