“We have been hearing rumors about him these three years. You have had time to study him; and if he has been faithful so long, you should not persist in a delay which must be hard upon him. After all, it is a matter of conscience; and if he is young, it is time to take a brevet of dignity.”
Cousin Betty had fixed her gaze on Adeline, and seeing that she was jesting, she replied:
“It would be marrying hunger and thirst; he is a workman, I am a workwoman. If we had children, they would be workmen.—No, no; we love each other spiritually; it is less expensive.”
“Why do you keep him in hiding?” Hortense asked.
“He wears a round jacket,” replied the old maid, laughing.
“You truly love him?” the Baroness inquired.
“I believe you! I love him for his own sake, the dear cherub. For four years his home has been in my heart.”
“Well, then, if you love him for himself,” said the Baroness gravely, “and if he really exists, you are treating him criminally. You do not know how to love truly.”
“We all know that from our birth,” said Lisbeth.
“No, there are women who love and yet are selfish, and that is your case.”
Cousin Betty’s head fell, and her glance would have made any one shiver who had seen it; but her eyes were on her reel of thread.
“If you would introduce your so-called lover to us, Hector might find him employment, or put him in a position to make money.”
“That is out of the question,” said Cousin Betty.
“And why?”
“He is a sort of Pole—a refugee——”
“A conspirator?” cried Hortense. “What luck for you!—Has he had any adventures?”
“He has fought for Poland. He was a professor in the school where the students began the rebellion; and as he had been placed there by the Grand Duke Constantine, he has no hope of mercy——”
“A professor of what?”
“Of fine arts.”
“And he came to Paris when the rebellion was quelled?”
“In 1833. He came through Germany on foot.”
“Poor young man! And how old is he?”
“He was just four-and-twenty when the insurrection broke out—he is twenty-nine now.”
“Fifteen years your junior,” said the Baroness.
“And what does he live on?” asked Hortense.
“His talent.”
“Oh, he gives lessons?”
“No,” said Cousin Betty; “he gets them, and hard ones too!”
“And his Christian name—is it a pretty name?”
“Wenceslas.”
“What a wonderful imagination you old maids have!” exclaimed the Baroness. “To hear you talk, Lisbeth, one might really believe you.”
“You see, mamma, he is a Pole, and so accustomed to the knout that Lisbeth reminds him of the joys of his native land.”
They all three laughed, and Hortense sang Wenceslas! idole de mon ame! instead of O Mathilde.
Then for a few minutes there was a truce.
“These children,” said Cousin Betty, looking at Hortense as she went up to her, “fancy that no one but themselves can have lovers.”
“Listen,” Hortense replied, finding herself alone with her cousin, “if you prove to me that Wenceslas is not a pure invention, I will give you my yellow cashmere shawl.”
“He is a Count.”
“Every Pole is a Count!”
“But he is not a Pole; he comes from Liva—Litha——”
“Lithuania?”
“No.”
“Livonia?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“But what is his name?”
“I wonder if you are capable of keeping a secret.”
“Cousin Betty, I will be as mute!——”
“As a fish?”
“As a fish.”
“By your life eternal?”
“By my life eternal!”
“No, by your happiness in this world?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, his name is Wenceslas Steinbock.”
“One of Charles XII.‘s Generals was named Steinbock.”
“He was his grand-uncle. His own father settled in Livonia after the death of the King of Sweden; but he lost all his fortune during the campaign of 1812, and died, leaving the poor boy at the age of eight without a penny. The Grand Duke Constantine, for the honor of the name of Steinbock, took him under his protection and sent him to school.”
“I will not break my word,” Hortense replied; “prove his existence, and you shall have the yellow shawl. The color is most becoming to dark skins.”
“And you will keep my secret?”
“And tell you mine.”
“Well, then, the next time I come you shall have the proof.”
“But the proof will be the lover,” said Hortense.
Cousin Betty, who, since her first arrival in Paris, had been bitten by a mania for shawls, was bewitched by the idea of owning the yellow cashmere given to his wife by the Baron in 1808, and handed down from mother to daughter after the manner of some families in 1830. The shawl had been a good deal worn ten years ago; but the costly object, now always kept in its sandal-wood box, seemed to the old maid ever new, like the drawing-room furniture. So she brought in her handbag a present for the Baroness’ birthday, by which she proposed to prove the existence of her romantic lover.
This present was a silver seal formed of three little figures back to back, wreathed with foliage, and supporting the Globe. They represented Faith, Hope, and Charity; their feet rested on monsters rending each other, among them the symbolical serpent. In 1846, now that such immense strides have been made in the art of which Benvenuto Cellini was the master, by Mademoiselle de Fauveau, Wagner, Jeanest, Froment-Meurice,
