Part 26

“Be easy,” replied the Baron graciously. “If the two ministers to whom I propose to show your group and this sketch in wax are delighted with these two pieces, your prospects of a fortune are good.”

Hortense hugged her father’s arm so tightly as to hurt him.

“Bring me your papers, and say nothing of your hopes to anybody, not even to our old Cousin Betty.”

“Lisbeth?” said Madame Hulot, at last understanding the end of all this, though unable to guess the means.

“I could give proof of my skill by making a bust of the Baroness,” added Wenceslas.

The artist, struck by Madame Hulot’s beauty, was comparing the mother and daughter.

“Indeed, monsieur, life may smile upon you,” said the Baron, quite charmed by Count Steinbock’s refined and elegant manner. “You will find out that in Paris no man is clever for nothing, and that persevering toil always finds its reward here.”

Hortense, with a blush, held out to the young man a pretty Algerine purse containing sixty gold pieces. The artist, with something still of a gentleman’s pride, responded with a mounting color easy enough to interpret.

“This, perhaps, is the first money your works have brought you?” said Adeline.

“Yes, madame--my works of art. It is not the first-fruits of my labor, for I have been a workman.”

“Well, we must hope my daughter’s money will bring you good luck,” said she.

“And take it without scruple,” added the Baron, seeing that Wenceslas held the purse in his hand instead of pocketing it. “The sum will be repaid by some rich man, a prince perhaps, who will offer it with interest to possess so fine a work.”

“Oh, I want it too much myself, papa, to give it up to anybody in the world, even a royal prince!”

“I can make a far prettier thing than that for you, mademoiselle.”

“But it would not be this one,” replied she; and then, as if ashamed of having said too much, she ran out into the garden.

“Then I shall break the mould and the model as soon as I go home,” said Steinbock.

“Fetch me your papers, and you will hear of me before long, if you are equal to what I expect of you, monsieur.”

The artist on this could but take leave. After bowing to Madame Hulot and Hortense, who came in from the garden on purpose, he went off to walk in the Tuileries, not bearing--not daring--to return to his attic, where his tyrant would pelt him with questions and wring his secret from him.

Hortense’s adorer conceived of groups and statues by the hundred; he felt strong enough to hew the marble himself, like Canova, who was also a feeble man, and nearly died of it. He was transfigured by Hortense, who was to him inspiration made visible.

“Now then,” said the Baroness to her daughter, “what does all this mean?”

“Well, dear mamma, you have just seen Cousin Lisbeth’s lover, who now, I hope, is mine. But shut your eyes, know nothing. Good Heavens! I was to keep it all from you, and I cannot help telling you everything----”

“Good-bye, children!” said the Baron, kissing his wife and daughter; “I shall perhaps go to call on the Nanny, and from her I shall hear a great deal about our young man.”

“Papa, be cautious!” said Hortense.

“Oh! little girl!” cried the Baroness when Hortense had poured out her poem, of which the morning’s adventure was the last canto, “dear little girl, Artlessness will always be the artfulest puss on earth!”

Genuine passions have an unerring instinct. Set a greedy man before a dish of fruit and he will make no mistake, but take the choicest even without seeing it. In the same way, if you allow a girl who is well brought up to choose a husband for herself, if she is in a position to meet the man of her heart, rarely will she blunder. The act of nature in such cases is known as love at first sight; and in love, first sight is practically second sight.

The Baroness’ satisfaction, though disguised under maternal dignity, was as great as her daughter’s; for, of the three ways of marrying Hortense of which Crevel had spoken, the best, as she opined, was about to be realized. And she regarded this little drama as an answer by Providence to her fervent prayers.

Mademoiselle Fischer’s galley slave, obliged at last to go home, thought he might hide his joy as a lover under his glee as an artist rejoicing over his first success.

“Victory! my group is sold to the Duc d’Herouville, who is going to give me some commissions,” cried he, throwing the twelve hundred francs in gold on the table before the old maid.