"Well, and what then?" said the Baroness coolly, to Crevel's great
amazement.

Such mean seducers cannot understand a great soul.

"I, a widower five years since," Crevel began, in the tone of a man
who has a story to tell, "and not wishing to marry again for the sake
of the daughter I adore, not choosing either to cultivate any such
connection in my own establishment, though I had at the time a very
pretty lady-accountant. I set up, 'on her own account,' as they say, a
little sempstress of fifteen--really a miracle of beauty, with whom I
fell desperately in love. And in fact, madame, I asked an aunt of my
own, my mother's sister, whom I sent for from the country, to live
with the sweet creature and keep an eye on her, that she might behave
as well as might be in this rather--what shall I say--shady?--no,
delicate position.

"The child, whose talent for music was striking, had masters, she was
educated--I had to give her something to do. Besides, I wished to be
at once her father, her benefactor, and--well, out with it--her lover;
to kill two birds with one stone, a good action and a sweetheart. For
five years I was very happy. The girl had one of those voices that
make the fortune of a theatre; I can only describe her by saying that
she is a Duprez in petticoats. It cost me two thousand francs a year
only to cultivate her talent as a singer. She made me music-mad; I
took a box at the opera for her and for my daughter, and went there
alternate evenings with Celestine or Josepha."

"What, the famous singer?"