“Poor child!” said the Baroness, moved amid her own sorrows by a strange sense of compassionate sympathy; “I will pray to God for you; for you are the victim of society, which must have theatres.  When you are old, repent—­you will be heard if God vouchsafes to hear the prayers of a—­”

“Of a martyr, madame,” Josepha put in, and she respectfully kissed the Baroness’ skirt.

But Adeline took the actress’ hand, and drawing her towards her, kissed her on the forehead.  Coloring with pleasure Josepha saw the Baroness into the hackney coach with the humblest politeness.

“It must be some visiting Lady of Charity,” said the man-servant to the maid, “for she does not do so much for any one, not even for her dear friend Madame Jenny Cadine.”

“Wait a few days,” said she, “and you will see him, madame, or I renounce the God of my fathers—­and that from a Jewess, you know, is a promise of success.”

At the very time when Madame Hulot was calling on Josepha, Victorin, in his study, was receiving an old woman of about seventy-five, who, to gain admission to the lawyer, had used the terrible name of the head of the detective force.  The man in waiting announced: 

“Madame de Saint-Esteve.”

“I have assumed one of my business names,” said she, taking a seat.

Victorin felt a sort of internal chill at the sight of this dreadful old woman.  Though handsomely dressed, she was terrible to look upon, for her flat, colorless, strongly-marked face, furrowed with wrinkles, expressed a sort of cold malignity.  Marat, as a woman of that age, might have been like this creature, a living embodiment of the Reign of Terror.

This sinister old woman’s small, pale eyes twinkled with a tiger’s bloodthirsty greed.  Her broad, flat nose, with nostrils expanded into oval cavities, breathed the fires of hell, and resembled the beak of some evil bird of prey.  The spirit of intrigue lurked behind her low, cruel brow.  Long hairs had grown from her wrinkled chin, betraying the masculine character of her schemes.  Any one seeing that woman’s face would have said that artists had failed in their conceptions of Mephistopheles.

“My dear sir,” she began, with a patronizing air, “I have long since given up active business of any kind.  What I have come to you to do, I have undertaken, for the sake of my dear nephew, whom I love more than I could love a son of my own.—­Now, the Head of the Police—­to whom the President of the Council said a few words in his ear as regards yourself, in talking to Monsieur Chapuzot—­thinks as the police ought not to appear in a matter of this description, you understand.  They gave my nephew a free hand, but my nephew will have nothing to say to it, except as before the Council; he will not be seen in it.”

“Then your nephew is—­”

“You have hit it, and I am rather proud of him,” said she, interrupting the lawyer, “for he is my pupil, and he soon could teach his teacher.—­We have considered this case, and have come to our own conclusions.  Will you hand over thirty thousand francs to have the whole thing taken off your hands?  I will make a clean sweep of all, and you need not pay till the job is done.”