“Silence!” said Madame de la Baudraye imperatively.  “What do you want of me that brought you here?”

“A power of attorney to receive our Uncle Silas’ property.”

Dinah took a pen, wrote two lines to Monsieur de Clagny, and desired her husband to call again in the afternoon.

At five o’clock, Monsieur de Clagny—­who had been promoted to the post of Attorney-General—­enlightened Madame de la Baudraye as to her position; still, he undertook to arrange everything by a bargain with the old fellow, whose visit had been prompted by avarice alone.  Monsieur de la Baudraye, to whom his wife’s power of attorney was indispensable to enable him to deal with the business as he wished, purchased it by certain concessions.  In the first place, he undertook to allow her ten thousand francs a year so long as she found it convenient—­so the document was worded—­to reside in Paris; the children, each on attaining the age of six, were to be placed in Monsieur de la Baudraye’s keeping.  Finally, the lawyer extracted the payment of the allowance in advance.

Little La Baudraye, who came jauntily enough to say good-bye to his wife and his children, appeared in a white india-rubber overcoat.  He was so firm on his feet, and so exactly like the La Baudraye of 1836, that Dinah despaired of ever burying the dreadful little dwarf.  From the garden, where he was smoking a cigar, the journalist could watch Monsieur de la Baudraye for so long as it took the little reptile to cross the forecourt, but that was enough for Lousteau; it was plain to him that the little man had intended to wreck every hope of his dying that his wife might have conceived.

This short scene made a considerable change in the writer’s secret scheming.  As he smoked a second cigar, he seriously reviewed the position.

His life with Madame de la Baudraye had hitherto cost him quite as much as it had cost her.  To use the language of business, the two sides of the account balanced, and they could, if necessary, cry quits.  Considering how small his income was, and how hardly he earned it, Lousteau regarded himself, morally speaking, as the creditor.  It was, no doubt, a favorable moment for throwing the woman over.  Tired at the end of three years of playing a comedy which never can become a habit, he was perpetually concealing his weariness; and this fellow, who was accustomed to disguise none of his feelings, compelled himself to wear a smile at home like that of a debtor in the presence of his creditor.  This compulsion was every day more intolerable.

Hitherto the immense advantages he foresaw in the future had given him strength; but when he saw Monsieur de la Baudraye embark for the United States, as briskly as if it were to go down to Rouen in a steamboat, he ceased to believe in the future.

He went in from the garden to the pretty drawing-room, where Dinah had just taken leave of her husband.