Stidmann, Claude Vignon, and Count Steinbock arrived almost together,
just at six. An ordinary, or, if you will, a natural woman would have
hastened at the announcement of a name so eagerly longed for; but
Valerie, though ready since five o'clock, remained in her room,
leaving her three guests together, certain that she was the subject of
their conversation or of their secret thoughts. She herself had
arranged the drawing-room, laying out the pretty trifles produced in
Paris and nowhere else, which reveal the woman and announce her
presence: albums bound in enamel or embroidered with beads, saucers
full of pretty rings, marvels of Sevres or Dresden mounted exquisitely
by Florent and Chanor, statues, books, all the frivolities which cost
insane sums, and which passion orders of the makers in its first
delirium--or to patch up its last quarrel.

Besides, Valerie was in the state of intoxication that comes of
triumph. She had promised to marry Crevel if Marneffe should die; and
the amorous Crevel had transferred to the name of Valerie Fortin bonds
bearing ten thousand francs a year, the sum-total of what he had made
in railway speculations during the past three years, the returns on
the capital of a hundred thousand crowns which he had at first offered
to the Baronne Hulot. So Valerie now had an income of thirty-two
thousand francs.

Crevel had just committed himself to a promise of far greater
magnitude than this gift of his surplus. In the paroxysm of rapture
which _his Duchess_ had given him from two to four--he gave this fine
title to Madame _de_ Marneffe to complete the illusion--for Valerie
had surpassed herself in the Rue du Dauphin that afternoon, he had
thought well to encourage her in her promised fidelity by giving her