As she came and went, the Baroness, seen by nobody, allowed her face to betray all her thoughts, and any one who could have seen her would have been shocked to see her agitation.  But when she finally came back from the glass door of the drawing-room, as she entered the cardroom, her face was hidden behind the impenetrable reserve which every woman, even the most candid, seems to have at her command.

During all these preparations—­odd, to say the least—­the National Guardsman studied the furniture of the room in which he found himself.  As he noted the silk curtains, once red, now faded to dull purple by the sunshine, and frayed in the pleats by long wear; the carpet, from which the hues had faded; the discolored gilding of the furniture; and the silk seats, discolored in patches, and wearing into strips —­expressions of scorn, satisfaction, and hope dawned in succession without disguise on his stupid tradesman’s face.  He looked at himself in the glass over an old clock of the Empire, and was contemplating the general effect, when the rustle of her silk skirt announced the Baroness.  He at once struck at attitude.

After dropping on to a sofa, which had been a very handsome one in the year 1809, the Baroness, pointing to an armchair with the arms ending in bronze sphinxes’ heads, while the paint was peeling from the wood, which showed through in many places, signed to Crevel to be seated.

“All the precautions you are taking, madame, would seem full of promise to a——­”

“To a lover,” said she, interrupting him.

“The word is too feeble,” said he, placing his right hand on his heart, and rolling his eyes in a way which almost always makes a woman laugh when she, in cold blood, sees such a look.  “A lover!  A lover?  Say a man bewitched——­”

“Listen, Monsieur Crevel,” said the Baroness, too anxious to be able to laugh, “you are fifty—­ten years younger than Monsieur Hulot, I know; but at my age a woman’s follies ought to be justified by beauty, youth, fame, superior merit—­some one of the splendid qualities which can dazzle us to the point of making us forget all else—­even at our age.  Though you may have fifty thousand francs a year, your age counterbalances your fortune; thus you have nothing whatever of what a woman looks for——­”

“But love!” said the officer, rising and coming forward.  “Such love as——­”

“No, monsieur, such obstinacy!” said the Baroness, interrupting him to put an end to his absurdity.

“Yes, obstinacy,” said he, “and love; but something stronger still—­a claim——­”

“A claim!” cried Madame Hulot, rising sublime with scorn, defiance, and indignation.  “But,” she went on, “this will bring us to no issues; I did not ask you to come here to discuss the matter which led to your banishment in spite of the connection between our families——­”

“I had fancied so.”

“What! still?” cried she.  “Do you not see, monsieur, by the entire ease and freedom with which I can speak of lovers and love, of everything least creditable to a woman, that I am perfectly secure in my own virtue?  I fear nothing—­not even to shut myself in alone with you.  Is that the conduct of a weak woman?  You know full well why I begged you to come.”