“Fetch me your papers, and you will hear of me before long, if you are equal to what I expect of you, monsieur.”

The artist on this could but take leave.  After bowing to Madame Hulot and Hortense, who came in from the garden on purpose, he went off to walk in the Tuileries, not bearing—­not daring—­to return to his attic, where his tyrant would pelt him with questions and wring his secret from him.

Hortense’s adorer conceived of groups and statues by the hundred; he felt strong enough to hew the marble himself, like Canova, who was also a feeble man, and nearly died of it.  He was transfigured by Hortense, who was to him inspiration made visible.

“Now then,” said the Baroness to her daughter, “what does all this mean?”

“Well, dear mamma, you have just seen Cousin Lisbeth’s lover, who now, I hope, is mine.  But shut your eyes, know nothing.  Good Heavens!  I was to keep it all from you, and I cannot help telling you everything——­”

“Good-bye, children!” said the Baron, kissing his wife and daughter; “I shall perhaps go to call on the Nanny, and from her I shall hear a great deal about our young man.”

“Papa, be cautious!” said Hortense.

“Oh! little girl!” cried the Baroness when Hortense had poured out her poem, of which the morning’s adventure was the last canto, “dear little girl, Artlessness will always be the artfulest puss on earth!”

Genuine passions have an unerring instinct.  Set a greedy man before a dish of fruit and he will make no mistake, but take the choicest even without seeing it.  In the same way, if you allow a girl who is well brought up to choose a husband for herself, if she is in a position to meet the man of her heart, rarely will she blunder.  The act of nature in such cases is known as love at first sight; and in love, first sight is practically second sight.

The Baroness’ satisfaction, though disguised under maternal dignity, was as great as her daughter’s; for, of the three ways of marrying Hortense of which Crevel had spoken, the best, as she opined, was about to be realized.  And she regarded this little drama as an answer by Providence to her fervent prayers.

Mademoiselle Fischer’s galley slave, obliged at last to go home, thought he might hide his joy as a lover under his glee as an artist rejoicing over his first success.

“Victory! my group is sold to the Duc d’Herouville, who is going to give me some commissions,” cried he, throwing the twelve hundred francs in gold on the table before the old maid.

He had, as may be supposed concealed Hortense’s purse; it lay next to his heart.

“And a very good thing too,” said Lisbeth.  “I was working myself to death.  You see, child, money comes in slowly in the business you have taken up, for this is the first you have earned, and you have been grinding at it for near on five years now.  That money barely repays me for what you have cost me since I took your promissory note; that is all I have got by my savings.  But be sure of one thing,” she said, after counting the gold, “this money will all be spent on you.  There is enough there to keep us going for a year.  In a year you may now be able to pay your debt and have a snug little sum of your own, if you go on in the same way.”