“Instead of thinking over your ideas you must work.—­Now, what have you done while I was out?”

“What did your pretty cousin say?”

“Who told you she was pretty?” asked Lisbeth sharply, in a tone hollow with tiger-like jealousy.

“Why, you did.”

“That was only to see your face.  Do you want to go trotting after petticoats?  You who are so fond of women, well, make them in bronze.  Let us see a cast of your desires, for you will have to do without the ladies for some little time yet, and certainly without my cousin, my good fellow.  She is not game for your bag; that young lady wants a man with sixty thousand francs a year—­and has found him!

“Why, your bed is not made!” she exclaimed, looking into the adjoining room.  “Poor dear boy, I quite forgot you!”

The sturdy woman pulled off her gloves, her cape and bonnet, and remade the artist’s little camp bed as briskly as any housemaid.  This mixture of abruptness, of roughness even, with real kindness, perhaps accounts for the ascendency Lisbeth had acquired over the man whom she regarded as her personal property.  Is not our attachment to life based on its alternations of good and evil?

If the Livonian had happened to meet Madame Marneffe instead of Lisbeth Fischer, he would have found a protectress whose complaisance must have led him into some boggy or discreditable path, where he would have been lost.  He would certainly never have worked, nor the artist have been hatched out.  Thus, while he deplored the old maid’s grasping avarice, his reason bid him prefer her iron hand to the life of idleness and peril led by many of his fellow-countrymen.

This was the incident that had given rise to the coalition of female energy and masculine feebleness—­a contrast in union said not to be uncommon in Poland.

In 1833 Mademoiselle Fischer, who sometimes worked into the night when business was good, at about one o’clock one morning perceived a strong smell of carbonic acid gas, and heard the groans of a dying man.  The fumes and the gasping came from a garret over the two rooms forming her dwelling, and she supposed that a young man who had but lately come to lodge in this attic—­which had been vacant for three years —­was committing suicide.  She ran upstairs, broke in the door by a push with her peasant strength, and found the lodger writhing on a camp-bed in the convulsions of death.  She extinguished the brazier; the door was open, the air rushed in, and the exile was saved.  Then, when Lisbeth had put him to bed like a patient, and he was asleep, she could detect the motives of his suicide in the destitution of the rooms, where there was nothing whatever but a wretched table, the camp-bed, and two chairs.

On the table lay a document, which she read: 

  “I am Count Wenceslas Steinbock, born at Prelia, in Livonia.

  “No one is to be accused of my death; my reasons for killing
  myself are, in the words of Kosciusko, Finis Polonioe!