“Now, do you understand my claim?  Your husband, dear lady, has robbed me of my joy in life, the only happiness I have known since I became a widower.  Yes, if I had not been so unlucky as to come across that old rip, Josepha would still be mine; for I, you know, should never have placed her on the stage.  She would have lived obscure, well conducted, and mine.  Oh! if you could but have seen her eight years ago, slight and wiry, with the golden skin of an Andalusian, as they say, black hair as shiny as satin, an eye that flashed lightning under long brown lashes, the style of a duchess in every movement, the modesty of a dependent, decent grace, and the pretty ways of a wild fawn.  And by that Hulot’s doing all this charm and purity has been degraded to a man-trap, a money-box for five-franc pieces!  The girl is the Queen of Trollops; and nowadays she humbugs every one—­she who knew nothing, not even that word.”

At this stage the retired perfumer wiped his eyes, which were full of tears.  The sincerity of his grief touched Madame Hulot, and roused her from the meditation into which she had sunk.

“Tell me, madame, is a man of fifty-two likely to find such another jewel?  At my age love costs thirty thousand francs a year.  It is through your husband’s experience that I know the price, and I love Celestine too truly to be her ruin.  When I saw you, at the first evening party you gave in our honor, I wondered how that scoundrel Hulot could keep a Jenny Cadine—­you had the manner of an Empress.  You do not look thirty,” he went on.  “To me, madame, you look young, and you are beautiful.  On my word of honor, that evening I was struck to the heart.  I said to myself, ’If I had not Josepha, since old Hulot neglects his wife, she would fit me like a glove.’  Forgive me—­it is a reminiscence of my old business.  The perfumer will crop up now and then, and that is what keeps me from standing to be elected deputy.

“And then, when I was so abominably deceived by the Baron, for really between old rips like us our friend’s mistress should be sacred, I swore I would have his wife.  It is but justice.  The Baron could say nothing; we are certain of impunity.  You showed me the door like a mangy dog at the first words I uttered as to the state of my feelings; you only made my passion—­my obstinacy, if you will—­twice as strong, and you shall be mine.”

“Indeed; how?”

“I do not know; but it will come to pass.  You see, madame, an idiot of a perfumer—­retired from business—­who has but one idea in his head, is stronger than a clever fellow who has a thousand.  I am smitten with you, and you are the means of my revenge; it is like being in love twice over.  I am speaking to you quite frankly, as a man who knows what he means.  I speak coldly to you, just as you do to me, when you say, ‘I never will be yours,’ In fact, as they say, I play the game with the cards on the table.  Yes, you shall be mine, sooner or later; if you were fifty, you should still be my mistress.  And it will be; for I expect anything from your husband!”