“For a handsome consideration?” said Josepha, with her usual perspicacity.

“Yes, madame, ten thousand francs, and an allowance to my father, who is past work.”

“I begged your daughter to make old Thoul happy, and she has thrown me over.  That is not fair.  I will take no interest in any one for the future!  That is what comes of trying to do good!  Benevolence certainly does not answer as a speculation!—­Olympe ought, at least, to have given me notice of this jobbing.  Now, if you find the old man Thoul within a fortnight, I will give you a thousand francs.”

“It will be a hard task, my good lady; still, there are a good many five-franc pieces in a thousand francs, and I will try to earn your money.”

“Good-morning, then, Madame Bijou.”

On going into the boudoir, the singer found that Madame Hulot had fainted; but in spite of having lost consciousness, her nervous trembling kept her still perpetually shaking, as the pieces of a snake that has been cut up still wriggle and move.  Strong salts, cold water, and all the ordinary remedies were applied to recall the Baroness to her senses, or rather, to the apprehension of her sorrows.

“Ah! mademoiselle, how far has he fallen!” cried she, recognizing Josepha, and finding that she was alone with her.

“Take heart, madame,” replied the actress, who had seated herself on a cushion at Adeline’s feet, and was kissing her hands.  “We shall find him; and if he is in the mire, well, he must wash himself.  Believe me, with people of good breeding it is a matter of clothes.—­Allow me to make up for you the harm I have done you, for I see how much you are attached to your husband, in spite of his misconduct—­or you should not have come here.—­Well, you see, the poor man is so fond of women.  If you had had a little of our dash, you would have kept him from running about the world; for you would have been what we can never be —­all the women man wants.

“The State ought to subsidize a school of manners for honest women!  But governments are so prudish!  Still, they are guided by men, whom we privately guide.  My word, I pity nations!

“But the matter in question is how you can be helped, and not to laugh at the world.—­Well, madame, be easy, go home again, and do not worry.  I will bring your Hector back to you as he was as a man of thirty.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, let us go to see that Madame Grenouville,” said the Baroness.  “She surely knows something!  Perhaps I may see the Baron this very day, and be able to snatch him at once from poverty and disgrace.”

“Madame, I will show you the deep gratitude I feel towards you by not displaying the stage-singer Josepha, the Duc d’Herouville’s mistress, in the company of the noblest, saintliest image of virtue.  I respect you too much to be seen by your side.  This is not acted humility; it is sincere homage.  You make me sorry, madame, that I cannot tread in your footsteps, in spite of the thorns that tear your feet and hands.  —­But it cannot be helped!  I am one with art, as you are one with virtue.”