“If it were twelve hundred,” said she, “I would beg you to send it to me.”

“It is antique, mademoiselle,” the dealer remarked, thinking, like all his fraternity, that, having uttered this ne plus ultra of bric-a-brac, there was no more to be said.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” she replied very quietly, “it was made this year; I came expressly to beg you, if my price is accepted, to send the artist to see us, as it might be possible to procure him some important commissions.”

“And if he is to have the twelve hundred francs, what am I to get?  I am the dealer,” said the man, with candid good-humor.

“To be sure!” replied the girl, with a slight curl of disdain.

“Oh! mademoiselle, take it; I will make terms with the dealer,” cried the Livonian, beside himself.

Fascinated by Hortense’s wonderful beauty and the love of art she displayed, he added: 

“I am the sculptor of the group, and for ten days I have come here three times a day to see if anybody would recognize its merit and bargain for it.  You are my first admirer—­take it!”

“Come, then, monsieur, with the dealer, an hour hence.—­Here is my father’s card,” replied Hortense.

Then, seeing the shopkeeper go into a back room to wrap the group in a piece of linen rag, she added in a low voice, to the great astonishment of the artist, who thought he must be dreaming: 

“For the benefit of your future prospects, Monsieur Wenceslas, do not mention the name of the purchaser to Mademoiselle Fischer, for she is our cousin.”

The word cousin dazzled the artist’s mind; he had a glimpse of Paradise whence this daughter of Eve had come to him.  He had dreamed of the beautiful girl of whom Lisbeth had told him, as Hortense had dreamed of her cousin’s lover; and, as she had entered the shop—­

“Ah!” thought he, “if she could but be like this!”

The look that passed between the lovers may be imagined; it was a flame, for virtuous lovers have no hypocrisies.

“Well, what the deuce are you doing here?” her father asked her.

“I have been spending twelve hundred francs that I had saved.  Come.”  And she took her father’s arm.

“Twelve hundred francs?” he repeated.

“To be exact, thirteen hundred; you will lend me the odd hundred?”

“And on what, in such a place, could you spend so much?”

“Ah! that is the question!” replied the happy girl.  “If I have got a husband, he is not dear at the money.”

“A husband!  In that shop, my child?”

“Listen, dear little father; would you forbid my marrying a great artist?”

“No, my dear.  A great artist in these days is a prince without a title —­he has glory and fortune, the two chief social advantages—­next to virtue,” he added, in a smug tone.

“Oh, of course!” said Hortense.  “And what do you think of sculpture?”