Marshal Hulot, who had stood up throughout this scene, as pale as a corpse, studying his brother out of the corner of his eye, went up to the Prince, and took his hand, repeating:
"In forty-eight hours the pecuniary mischief shall be repaired; but honor!—Good-bye, Marshal. It is the last shot that kills. Yes, I shall die of it!" he said in his ear.
"What the devil brought you here this morning?" said the Prince, much moved.
"I came to see what can be done for his wife," replied the Count, pointing to his brother. "She is wanting bread—especially now!"
"He has his pension."
"It is pledged!"
"The Devil must possess such a man," said the Prince, with a shrug. "What philtre do those baggages give you to rob you of your wits?" he went on to Hulot d'Ervy. "How could you—you, who know the precise details with which in French offices everything is written down at full length, consuming reams of paper to certify to the receipt or outlay of a few centimes—you, who have so often complained that a hundred signatures are needed for a mere trifle, to discharge a soldier, to buy a curry-comb—how could you hope to conceal a theft for any length of time? To say nothing of the newspapers, and the envious, and the people who would like to steal!—those women must rob you of your common-sense! Do they cover your eyes with walnut-shells? or are you yourself made of different stuff from us?—You ought to have left the office as soon as you found that you were no longer a man, but a temperament. If you have complicated your crime with such gross folly, you will end—I will not say where——"
"Promise me, Cottin, that you will do what you can for her," said the Marshal, who heard nothing, and was still thinking of his sister-in-law.
"Depend on me!" said the Minister.
"Thank you, and good-bye then!—Come, monsieur," he said to his brother.