The Baroness had an ardent admirer in her brother-in-law, Lieutenant-General Hulot, the venerable Colonel of the Grenadiers of the Imperial Infantry Guard, who was to have a Marshal’s baton in his old age.  This veteran, after having served from 1830 to 1834 as Commandant of the military division, including the departments of Brittany, the scene of his exploits in 1799 and 1800, had come to settle in Paris near his brother, for whom he had a fatherly affection.

This old soldier’s heart was in sympathy with his sister-in-law; he admired her as the noblest and saintliest of her sex.  He had never married, because he hoped to find a second Adeline, though he had vainly sought for her through twenty campaigns in as many lands.  To maintain her place in the esteem of this blameless and spotless old republican—­of whom Napoleon had said, “That brave old Hulot is the most obstinate republican, but he will never be false to me”—­Adeline would have endured griefs even greater than those that had just come upon her.  But the old soldier, seventy-two years of age, battered by thirty campaigns, and wounded for the twenty-seventh time at Waterloo, was Adeline’s admirer, and not a “protector.”  The poor old Count, among other infirmities, could only hear through a speaking trumpet.

So long as Baron Hulot d’Ervy was a fine man, his flirtations did not damage his fortune; but when a man is fifty, the Graces claim payment.  At that age love becomes vice; insensate vanities come into play.  Thus, at about that time, Adeline saw that her husband was incredibly particular about his dress; he dyed his hair and whiskers, and wore a belt and stays.  He was determined to remain handsome at any cost.  This care of his person, a weakness he had once mercilessly mocked at, was carried out in the minutest details.

At last Adeline perceived that the Pactolus poured out before the Baron’s mistresses had its source in her pocket.  In eight years he had dissipated a considerable amount of money; and so effectually, that, on his son’s marriage two years previously, the Baron had been compelled to explain to his wife that his pay constituted their whole income.

“What shall we come to?” asked Adeline.

“Be quite easy,” said the official, “I will leave the whole of my salary in your hands, and I will make a fortune for Hortense, and some savings for the future, in business.”

The wife’s deep belief in her husband’s power and superior talents, in his capabilities and character, had, in fact, for the moment allayed her anxiety.

What the Baroness’ reflections and tears were after Crevel’s departure may now be clearly imagined.  The poor woman had for two years past known that she was at the bottom of a pit, but she had fancied herself alone in it.  How her son’s marriage had been finally arranged she had not known; she had known nothing of Hector’s connection with the grasping Jewess; and, above all, she hoped