"And how much does he want for it?"
"Fifteen hundred francs. The dealer will not let it go for less, since
he must take his commission."
"Papa is in the King's household just now," said Hortense. "He sees
those two ministers every day at the Chamber, and he will do the thing
--I undertake that. You will be a rich woman, Madame la Comtesse de
Steinbock."
"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.
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