Baron Hector Hulot came in, in a dress at once lawyer-like and Napoleonic, for Imperial men—­men who had been attached to the Emperor —­were easily distinguishable by their military deportment, their blue coats with gilt buttons, buttoned to the chin, their black silk stock, and an authoritative demeanor acquired from a habit of command in circumstances requiring despotic rapidity.  There was nothing of the old man in the Baron, it must be admitted; his sight was still so good, that he could read without spectacles; his handsome oval face, framed in whiskers that were indeed too black, showed a brilliant complexion, ruddy with the veins that characterize a sanguine temperament; and his stomach, kept in order by a belt, had not exceeded the limits of “the majestic,” as Brillat-Savarin says.  A fine aristocratic air and great affability served to conceal the libertine with whom Crevel had had such high times.  He was one of those men whose eyes always light up at the sight of a pretty woman, even of such as merely pass by, never to be seen again.

“Have you been speaking, my dear?” asked Adeline, seeing him with an anxious brow.

“No,” replied Hector, “but I am worn out with hearing others speak for two hours without coming to a vote.  They carry on a war of words, in which their speeches are like a cavalry charge which has no effect on the enemy.  Talk has taken the place of action, which goes very much against the grain with men who are accustomed to marching orders, as I said to the Marshal when I left him.  However, I have enough of being bored on the ministers’ bench; here I may play.—­How do, la Chevre!  —­Good morning, little kid,” and he took his daughter round the neck, kissed her, and made her sit on his knee, resting her head on his shoulder, that he might feel her soft golden hair against his cheek.

“He is tired and worried,” said his wife to herself.  “I shall only worry him more.—­I will wait.—­Are you going to be at home this evening?” she asked him.

“No, children.  After dinner I must go out.  If it had not been the day when Lisbeth and the children and my brother come to dinner, you would not have seen me at all.”

The Baroness took up the newspaper, looked down the list of theatres, and laid it down again when she had seen that Robert le Diable was to be given at the Opera.  Josepha, who had left the Italian Opera six months since for the French Opera, was to take the part of Alice.

This little pantomime did not escape the Baron, who looked hard at his wife.  Adeline cast down her eyes and went out into the garden; her husband followed her.

“Come, what is it, Adeline?” said he, putting his arm round her waist and pressing her to his side.  “Do not you know that I love you more than——­”

“More than Jenny Cadine or Josepha!” said she, boldly interrupting him.

“Who put that into your head?” exclaimed the Baron, releasing his wife, and starting back a step or two.