“Good God! what will become of us!” she went on, wiping away her tears.  “Can a mother sit still and see her child pine away before her eyes?  What is to be the fate of that splendid creature, as strong in her pure life under her mother’s care as she is by every gift of nature?  There are days when she wanders round the garden, out of spirits without knowing why; I find her with tears in her eyes——­”

“She is one-and-twenty,” said Crevel.

“Must I place her in a convent?” asked the Baroness.  “But in such cases religion is impotent to subdue nature, and the most piously trained girls lose their head!—­Get up, pray, monsieur; do you not understand that everything is final between us? that I look upon you with horror? that you have crushed a mother’s last hopes——­”

“But if I were to restore them,” asked he.

Madame Hulot looked at Crevel with a frenzied expression that really touched him.  But he drove pity back to the depths of his heart; she had said, “I look upon you with horror.”

Virtue is always a little too rigid; it overlooks the shades and instincts by help of which we are able to tack when in a false position.

“So handsome a girl as Mademoiselle Hortense does not find a husband nowadays if she is penniless,” Crevel remarked, resuming his starchiest manner.  “Your daughter is one of those beauties who rather alarm intending husbands; like a thoroughbred horse, which is too expensive to keep up to find a ready purchaser.  If you go out walking with such a woman on your arm, every one will turn to look at you, and follow and covet his neighbor’s wife.  Such success is a source of much uneasiness to men who do not want to be killing lovers; for, after all, no man kills more than one.  In the position in which you find yourself there are just three ways of getting your daughter married:  Either by my help—­and you will have none of it!  That is one.—­Or by finding some old man of sixty, very rich, childless, and anxious to have children; that is difficult, still such men are to be met with.  Many old men take up with a Josepha, a Jenny Cadine, why should not one be found who is ready to make a fool of himself under legal formalities?  If it were not for Celestine and our two grandchildren, I would marry Hortense myself.  That is two.—­The last way is the easiest——­”

Madame Hulot raised her head, and looked uneasily at the ex-perfumer.

“Paris is a town whither every man of energy—­and they sprout like saplings on French soil—­comes to meet his kind; talent swarms here without hearth or home, and energy equal to anything, even to making a fortune.  Well, these youngsters—­your humble servant was such a one in his time, and how many he has known!  What had du Tillet or Popinot twenty years since?  They were both pottering round in Daddy Birotteau’s shop, with not a penny of capital but their determination to get on, which, in my opinion, is the best capital a man can have.