“My dear boy,” said she, “never say a word of your arrest to anybody, do not write to a living soul; it would ruin you for life; we must hide this blot on your character. I will soon have you out. I will collect the money--be quite easy. Write down what you want for your work. You shall soon be free, or I will die for it.”
“Oh, I shall owe you my life a second time!” cried he, “for I should lose more than my life if I were thought a bad fellow.”
Lisbeth went off in great glee; she hoped, by keeping her artist under lock and key, to put a stop to his marriage by announcing that he was a married man, pardoned by the efforts of his wife, and gone off to Russia.
To carry out this plan, at about three o’clock she went to the Baroness, though it was not the day when she was due to dine with her; but she wished to enjoy the anguish which Hortense must endure at the hour when Wenceslas was in the habit of making his appearance.
“Have you come to dinner?” asked the Baroness, concealing her disappointment.
“That’s well,” replied Hortense. “I will go and tell them to be punctual, for you do not like to be kept waiting.”
Hortense nodded reassuringly to her mother, for she intended to tell the man-servant to send away Monsieur Steinbock if he should call; the man, however, happened to be out, so Hortense was obliged to give her orders to the maid, and the girl went upstairs to fetch her needlework and sit in the ante-room.
“And about my lover?” said Cousin Betty to Hortense, when the girl came back. “You never ask about him now?”
“To be sure, what is he doing?” said Hortense. “He has become famous. You ought to be very happy,” she added in an undertone to Lisbeth. “Everybody is talking of Monsieur Wenceslas Steinbock.”
“A great deal too much,” replied she in her clear tones. “Monsieur is departing.--If it were only a matter of charming him so far as to defy the attractions of Paris, I know my power; but they say that in order to secure the services of such an artist, the Emperor Nichols has pardoned him----”
“When did you hear that?” asked Hortense, who felt as if her heart had the cramp.
“Well,” said the villainous Lisbeth, “a person to whom he is bound by the most sacred ties--his wife--wrote yesterday to tell him so. He wants to be off. Oh, he will be a great fool to give up France to go to Russia!--”