“But for me,” said Lisbeth, “your father’s ruin would be more complete than it is.”
“Come in to mamma,” said Hortense; “she is very sharp, and will suspect something; as our kind Lisbeth says, let us keep everything from her—let us be cheerful.”
“Victorin,” said Lisbeth, “you have no notion of what your father will be brought to by his passion for women. Try to secure some future resource by getting the Marshal to marry me. Say something about it this evening; I will leave early on purpose.”
Victorin went into the bedroom.
“And you, poor little thing!” said Lisbeth in an undertone to Hortense, “what can you do?”
“Come to dinner with us to-morrow, and we will talk it over,” answered Hortense. “I do not know which way to turn; you know how hard life is, and you will advise me.”
While the whole family with one consent tried to persuade the Marshal to marry, and while Lisbeth was making her way home to the Rue Vanneau, one of those incidents occurred which, in such women as Madame Marneffe, are a stimulus to vice by compelling them to exert their energy and every resource of depravity. One fact, at any rate, must however be acknowledged: life in Paris is too full for vicious persons to do wrong instinctively and unprovoked; vice is only a weapon of defence against aggressors—that is all.
Madame Marneffe’s drawing-room was full of her faithful admirers, and she had just started the whist-tables, when the footman, a pensioned soldier recruited by the Baron, announced:
“Monsieur le Baron Montes de Montejanos.”
Valerie’s heart jumped, but she hurried to the door, exclaiming: