At the time when this Drama opens, if Cousin Betty would have allowed herself to be dressed like other people; if, like the women of Paris, she had been accustomed to wear each fashion in its turn, she would have been presentable and acceptable, but she preserved the stiffness of a stick.  Now a woman devoid of all the graces, in Paris simply does not exist.  The fine but hard eyes, the severe features, the Calabrian fixity of complexion which made Lisbeth like a figure by Giotto, and of which a true Parisian would have taken advantage, above all, her strange way of dressing, gave her such an extraordinary appearance that she sometimes looked like one of those monkeys in petticoats taken about by little Savoyards.  As she was well known in the houses connected by family which she frequented, and restricted her social efforts to that little circle, as she liked her own home, her singularities no longer astonished anybody; and out of doors they were lost in the immense stir of Paris street-life, where only pretty women are ever looked at.

Hortense’s laughter was at this moment caused by a victory won over her Cousin Lisbeth’s perversity; she had just wrung from her an avowal she had been hoping for these three years past.  However secretive an old maid may be, there is one sentiment which will always avail to make her break her fast from words, and that is her vanity.  For the last three years, Hortense, having become very inquisitive on such matters, had pestered her cousin with questions, which, however, bore the stamp of perfect innocence.  She wanted to know why her cousin had never married.  Hortense, who knew of the five offers that she had refused, had constructed her little romance; she supposed that Lisbeth had had a passionate attachment, and a war of banter was the result.  Hortense would talk of “We young girls!” when speaking of herself and her cousin.

Cousin Betty had on several occasions answered in the same tone—­“And who says I have not a lover?” So Cousin Betty’s lover, real or fictitious, became a subject of mild jesting.  At last, after two years of this petty warfare, the last time Lisbeth had come to the house Hortense’s first question had been: 

“And how is your lover?”

“Pretty well, thank you,” was the answer.  “He is rather ailing, poor young man.”

“He has delicate health?” asked the Baroness, laughing.

“I should think so!  He is fair.  A sooty thing like me can love none but a fair man with a color like the moon.”

“But who is he?  What does he do?” asked Hortense.  “Is he a prince?”

“A prince of artisans, as I am queen of the bobbin.  Is a poor woman like me likely to find a lover in a man with a fine house and money in the funds, or in a duke of the realm, or some Prince Charming out of a fairy tale?”

“Oh, I should so much like to see him!” cried Hortense, smiling.

“To see what a man can be like who can love the Nanny Goat?” retorted Lisbeth.