“No, the boy is too lazy; for whole weeks he sits twiddling with bits of red wax, and nothing comes of it.  Why, he spends all his days at the Louvre and the Library, looking at prints and sketching things.  He is an idler!”

The cousins chatted and giggled; Hortense laughing a forced laugh, for she was invaded by a kind of love which every girl has gone through —­the love of the unknown, love in its vaguest form, when every thought is accreted round some form which is suggested by a chance word, as the efflorescence of hoar-frost gathers about a straw that the wind has blown against the window-sill.

For the past ten months she had made a reality of her cousin’s imaginary romance, believing, like her mother, that Lisbeth would never marry; and now, within a week, this visionary being had become Comte Wenceslas Steinbock, the dream had a certificate of birth, the wraith had solidified into a young man of thirty.  The seal she held in her hand—­a sort of Annunciation in which genius shone like an immanent light—­had the powers of a talisman.  Hortense felt such a surge of happiness, that she almost doubted whether the tale were true; there was a ferment in her blood, and she laughed wildly to deceive her cousin.

“But I think the drawing-room door is open,” said Lisbeth; “let us go and see if Monsieur Crevel is gone.”

“Mamma has been very much out of spirits these two days.  I suppose the marriage under discussion has come to nothing!”

“Oh, it may come on again.  He is—­I may tell you so much—­a Councillor of the Supreme Court.  How would you like to be Madame la Presidente?  If Monsieur Crevel has a finger in it, he will tell me about it if I ask him.  I shall know by to-morrow if there is any hope.”

“Leave the seal with me,” said Hortense; “I will not show it—­mamma’s birthday is not for a month yet; I will give it to you that morning.”

“No, no.  Give it back to me; it must have a case.”

“But I will let papa see it, that he may know what he is talking about to the ministers, for men in authority must be careful what they say,” urged the girl.

“Well, do not show it to your mother—­that is all I ask; for if she believed I had a lover, she would make game of me.”

“I promise.”

The cousins reached the drawing-room just as the Baroness turned faint.  Her daughter’s cry of alarm recalled her to herself.  Lisbeth went off to fetch some salts.  When she came back, she found the mother and daughter in each other’s arms, the Baroness soothing her daughter’s fears, and saying: 

“It was nothing; a little nervous attack.—­There is your father,” she added, recognizing the Baron’s way of ringing the bell.  “Say not a word to him.”

Adeline rose and went to meet her husband, intending to take him into the garden and talk to him till dinner should be served of the difficulties about the proposed match, getting him to come to some decision as to the future, and trying to hint at some warning advice.