– ”
“What, is there more to come?” asked her father, smiling.
The child’s complete and effervescent innocence had restored her father’s peace of mind.
“A confession of the first importance,” said she. “I loved him without knowing him; and, for the last hour, since seeing him, I am crazy about him.”
“A little too crazy!” said the Baron, who was enjoying the sight of this guileless passion.
“Do not punish me for confiding in you,” replied she. “It is so delightful to say to my father’s heart, ‘I love him! I am so happy in loving him!’ – You will see my Wenceslas! His brow is so sad. The sun of genius shines in his gray eyes – and what an air he has! What do you think of Livonia? Is it a fine country? – The idea of Cousin Betty’s marrying that young fellow! She might be his mother. It would be murder! I am quite jealous of all she has ever done for him. But I don’t think my marriage will please her.”
“See, my darling, we must hide nothing from your mother.”
“I should have to show her the seal, and I promised not to betray Cousin Lisbeth, who is afraid, she says, of mamma’s laughing at her,” said Hortense.
“You have scruples about the seal, and none about robbing your cousin of her lover.”
“I promised about the seal – I made no promise about the sculptor.”
This adventure, patriarchal in its simplicity, came admirably a propos to the unconfessed poverty of the family; the Baron, while praising his daughter for her candor, explained to her that she must now leave matters to the discretion of her parents.
“You understand, my child, that it is not your part to ascertain whether your cousin’s lover is a Count, if he has all his papers properly certified, and if his conduct is a guarantee for his respectability. – As for your cousin, she refused five offers when she was twenty years younger; that will prove no obstacle, I undertake to say.”
“Listen to me, papa; if you really wish to see me married, never say a word to Lisbeth about it till just before the contract is signed. I have been catechizing her about this business for the last six months! Well, there is something about her quite inexplicable – ”
“What?” said her father, puzzled.
“Well, she looks evil when I say too much, even in joke, about her lover. Make inquiries, but leave me to row my own boat. My confidence ought to reassure you.”
“The Lord said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto Me.’ You are one of those who have come back again,” replied the Baron with a touch of irony.
After breakfast the dealer was announced, and the artist with his group. The sudden flush that reddened her daughter’s face at once made the Baroness suspicious and then watchful, and the girl’s confusion and the light in her eyes soon betrayed the mystery so badly guarded in her simple heart.
Count Steinbock, dressed in black, struck the Baron as a very gentlemanly young man.
“Would you undertake a bronze statue?” he asked, as he held up the group.
After admiring it on trust, he passed it on to his wife, who knew nothing about sculpture.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it, mamma?” said Hortense in her mother’ ear.
“A statue! Monsieur, it is less difficult to execute a statue than to make a clock like this, which my friend here has been kind enough to bring,” said the artist in reply.
The dealer was placing on the dining-room sideboard the wax model of the twelve Hours that the Loves were trying to delay.
“Leave the clock with me,” said the Baron, astounded at the beauty of the sketch. “I should like to show it to the Ministers of the Interior and of Commerce.”
“Who is the young man in whom you take so much interest?” the Baroness asked her daughter.
“An artist who could afford to execute this model could get a hundred thousand francs for it,” said the curiosity-dealer, putting on a knowing and mysterious look as he saw that the artist and the girl were interchanging glances. “He would only need to sell twenty copies at eight thousand francs each – for the materials would cost about a thousand crowns for each example. But if each copy were numbered and the mould destroyed, it would certainly be possible to meet with twenty amateurs only too glad to possess a replica of such a work.”
“A hundred thousand francs!” cried Steinbock, looking from the dealer to Hortense, the Baron, and the Baroness.
“Yes, a hundred thousand francs,” repeated the dealer. “If I were rich enough, I would buy it of you myself for twenty thousand francs; for by destroying the mould it would become a valuable property. But one of the princes ought to pay thirty or forty thousand francs for such a work to ornament his drawing-room. No man has ever succeeded in making a clock satisfactory alike to the vulgar and to the connoisseur, and this one, sir, solves the difficulty.”
“This is for yourself, monsieur,” said Hortense, giving six gold pieces to the dealer.
“Never breath a word of this visit to any one living,” said the artist to his friend, at the door. “If you should be asked where we sold the group, mention the Duc d’Herouville, the famous collector in the Rue de Varenne.”
The dealer nodded assent.
“And your name?” said Hulot to the artist when he came back.
“Count Steinbock.”
“Have you the papers that prove your identity?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Baron. They are in Russian and in German, but not legalized.”
“Do you feel equal to undertaking a statue nine feet high?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Well, then, if the persons whom I shall consult are satisfied with your work, I can secure you the commission for the statue of Marshal Montcornet, which is to be erected on his monument at Pere-Lachaise. The Minister of War and the old officers of the Imperial Guard have subscribed a sum large enough to enable us to select our artist.”
“Oh, monsieur, it will make my fortune!” exclaimed Steinbock, overpowered by so much happiness at once.
“Be easy,” replied the Baron graciously. “If the two ministers to whom I propose to show your group and this sketch in wax are delighted with these two pieces, your prospects of a fortune are good.”
Hortense hugged her father’s arm so tightly as to hurt him.
“Bring me your papers, and say nothing of your hopes to anybody, not even to our old Cousin Betty.”
“Lisbeth?” said Madame Hulot, at last understanding the end of all this, though unable to guess the means.
“I could give proof of my skill by making a bust of the Baroness,” added Wenceslas.
The artist, struck by Madame Hulot’s beauty, was comparing the mother and daughter.
“Indeed, monsieur, life may smile upon you,” said the Baron, quite charmed
